


The Little Merman

by ElenaCee



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, mer!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenaCee/pseuds/ElenaCee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Sherlock, merman, and John, prince of Albion. Worlds and cultures collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2007 in response to some delightful drawings by Elina K. and my own love for mermen. Finished in 2008, crossposted from ff.net and LJ.

Prince John ducked behind a convenient hedge and waited. Footfalls indicated where his servant was moving back and forth, looking for him. There was an unpleasant moment when the fellow appeared to look in his direction, but then he shook his head and walked away, presumably to join the royal guards in their search for the prince. Soon, the party began to confine their efforts to the interior of the Royal Palace. Everything was silent once more, and the young man dared leave his cover.

John hated being waited upon during all hours of the day, guarded and protected. He was capable of managing his own life, thank you very much, and had been for a while. Privacy was hard to come by if you were the Prince of Albion. But now, more than ever before, he needed to be alone.

It had been a strenuous month of travelling. His father, the King of Albion, had once again accepted any number of invitations to distant kingdoms where nubile princesses were looking for their mate. This usually entailed the most improbable tests, all supposedly meant to evaluate the King-in-spe's suitability. John had never understood how finding seven feathers of seven different birds of prey, or whatever the respective custom was, would demonstrate his ability to rule a kingdom. Besides, John adhered to the, apparently outrageous, idea that his mate should be in love with him, and he with her. Wasn't that the most important thing, even if you were ruler of a kingdom?

Apparently not. So far, he had not met a princess he felt he could love. And none of the princesses, most assuredly, had felt anything of the kind towards him. He sincerely doubted that they would love the winner of whatever tests they had devised, either.

But now, he was back in Albion, where nothing had changed. His life, for all its luxury and privilege, was still very lonely, and occasionally quite miserable. And occasionally, he needed to get away from everything.

There was a secluded spot by the sea that he would escape to in moments like these. It was quite a ways from the Royal Palace, even on horseback. The coast was rough and shallow there, which made it unattractive to fishermen, and the beach was rocky, which made it unsuitable for bathing. All of this made it a place where no-one went, and John did not think that anyone even knew about it, except him and some lizards, crabs and birds.

He managed to sneak his horse out of the stables and to ride away without anyone following him. His father would certainly be furious, but that was a problem he would face when the time came.

The ride did much to clear his mind, as it always did. However, when he finally dismounted and walked the remaining distance to "his" rock on foot, he still was no nearer to finding a solution to his situation than before.

All he knew was that he was profoundly unhappy. He stood, easily balancing his weight upon the balls of his feet, the setting sun glinting off the silks and velvets of his princely finery, and he fancied himself the most unfortunate man upon this earth.

* * *

There he was. Sherlock experienced a wholly unaccustomed thrill at the sight of him. Holding his position with gentle movements of hands and tail, he peered up through the water surface, wishing for calmer seas that would not distort his vision so.

For weeks, he had come here every day, leaving the cool deep waters for the warmer shallows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the landman who, for reasons unfathomable to him, dominated his every waking thought.

Sherlock vividly remembered the first time he had seen the landman. He had been searching for a missing merchild. Some freak currents during that time had prompted him to search along the coastal shallows, so he had happened to be quite close to dry land. It had been late, much as it was now, and the setting sun had cast the most beautiful reflections into the water. Curious, he had floated close to the surface, wondering what it was that glinted and sparkled so. To his surprise, it had been a landman wearing expensive clothes and some sort of crown upon his head that reflected the light of the setting sun. The face, strong and noble, with a high brow, honest blue eyes and a moustache, together with the solid, athletic body and its proud bearing, had impressed Sherlock more than the nobleman's outfit. There had been something tragic and yearning about the face that had attracted him and lured him into staying dangerously close to the shore. And so, he had hovered, watching, until the young man finally turned round with a sigh, walking away from the shore with long strides of the strange legs these landmen possessed.

Guiltily, Sherlock had resumed his search, and he had been back the next day.

Of course, it had not taken Mycroft long to notice. "I do not understand you, Sherlock," he had said after the third time his younger brother had dared to approach the shore in order to observe the landman. "It is an unconscionable risk you're taking. The landmen have ships and even machines that can swim underwater. The threat of discovery is greater than ever. The emperor has released an edict that forbids anyone to approach the shallows and their ships, as you very well know. You, especially, would be well advised to heed it. There is nothing on dry land that can possibly be of use to you, after all."

Sherlock had said nothing. He knew Mycroft was right. Both brothers were under greater obligation than anyone else to do whatever the emperor ordered, at least publicly. Besides, the risk truly was great, and what did he hope to gain by taking it? Was he really doing it merely to catch a glimpse of the landman? Surely, that would be a sign of insanity.

He had pondered the question with his customary thoroughness, and came to the conclusion that he was not insane, merely fascinated. Wasn't it normal for any intelligent being to be curious about the things he did not know? And, truthfully, what did they really know about the landmen? Oh, there were groups devoted to studying them, but these studies were by necessity made from afar, and whatever results were gained were distorted by prejudice. Emperor after emperor had forbidden any direct contact with the landmen because of ancient history involving a lot of misunderstanding and some deaths. Sherlock believed that there were good men among the landmen, just as there certainly were bad men among the mermen. If only someone with courage and determination would take the first step towards mutually beneficent contact, surely much could be gained by both sides.

Not surprisingly, Mycroft did not agree, but he did promise not to mention his younger brother's obsession to the emperor. After all, Sherlock had his work and courtly responsibilities, and it would not do if anything cast suspicion upon his reputation for logical and rational behaviour – a reputation that, if Sherlock were honest with himself, was in the gravest danger, with no-one to blame but himself.

But that did not stop him from coming here, and from dreaming.

Of course, dreaming was not the only thing he did. He observed the landman's clothes, the noble metal upon his brow, and deduced that this surely was no commoner. The fact that he came here so often, doing nothing but look out to the sea and sigh, indicated that he did not have to work for his daily food. Also, he owned one of those curious four-legged beasts of labour that the landmen used for transportation, much as the mermen used dolphins, which indicated that the man was not without means, a deduction once again borne out by his clothes.

But this was where his deductions ended and began to turn in circles. He did not know the most basic things, such as the landman's name, or why he was so sad.

If only there were some means of communicating with him that did no involve showing himself! But while the general consensus was that the landmen did use speech and writing, no-one had yet been able to identify their language, let alone managed to decipher their alphabet. There were simply too many strange sounds that could be employed when communicating through air instead of water, sounds for which there were no equivalents in any merspeech or the many dialects. A school of science speculated that mermen and landmen had common roots, maybe even been one species in the distant past – a theory not very popular with some -, but even if that were the case, the development of both races in their different environments had drifted them too far apart over the millennia for communication to be possible anymore.

This was, no doubt, the true reason for the hostilities of centuries ago. Sherlock did not know more about what had happened than the next merman, but it was common knowledge that these hostilities had involved drowned landmen and suffocated mermen, some abductions and much blood spilled upon both sides. And of course, most mermen squarely placed the blame with the landmen, and they did not forget. Hence the current edict that made Sherlock a criminal even now.

So be it! Let these politicians formulate their little edicts until their fins should whither and flake off. Sherlock felt it in his bones – this was where his destiny lay: with this nameless landman and his sad sea-coloured eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"I am not at all certain that this is a good idea, Sire," Hudson wailed in his restrained manner while trying to keep up with Prince John's determined pace. "Forgive me, Sire, but I cannot imagine what His Majesty would say if he knew about this." The servant allowed his voice to trail off meaningfully.

John was undeterred. "I shall depend upon you, Hudson, that he won't hear about it, then," he stated in what he hoped was a clear yet sufficiently vague threat.

Hudson made no rejoinder, choosing instead to mutter unhappily to himself.

John sighed. Here he was, outside of the Royal Palace in the fresh air, the green countryside in view, and still the courtly intrigues, constant back-and-forth of boons, favours, responsibilities, and above all, of upholding appearances was following him inexorably. It was becoming harder and harder to bear because of his growing conviction that he was not made for this life. Not a day passed when he did not yearn to leave it all behind and simply stop being heir apparent, required to learn more about courtly behaviour than about the actual skills involved in ruling a kingdom, being constantly watched by everyone, criticised and never able to fulfil anybody's expectations, least of all his father's.

There had been Words, again. The King failed to understand how his son could choose to spend so much of his time not in the Palace when there was so much to do, important things such as showing his face and his support for the King's policies. While there was some truth in that, it was, at the same time, a load of nonsense, but John had not found the words to express this. That was the worst of it; John felt unable to explain himself in a way that was not guaranteed to earn him lack of comprehension at best and laughing disdain at worst.

How to impart the sense of peace he only felt when he was close to the sea, as far away from the Royal Court as he could get without actually leaving Albion? The constant yet constantly changing face of the ocean, mysterious yet familiar, soothing yet dangerous; the wide horizon; the sky and clouds, always moving; the winds, sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh; the scents associated with wet sands, salt water and seaweed; the sounds of the surf and the cry of seagulls – it all served to transport him to some place within himself where none of his basic discontent could touch him. Even remembering his spot by the sea served to raise his spirits.

John sighed again, deeply. Of course, the King would never understand. Those, according to him, were boyish fancies that John had best outgrow soon. There would be no time to vacantly gaze at the sea when he was King, after all.

Hudson, meanwhile, was ordering the stable boy and a couple of footmen to prepare the wagon and the catboat for transport to the coast, never ceasing his grumblings and shooting John resentful little glances that the young man studiously ignored.

"But you cannot swim, Sire!" Hudson finally ejaculated, unable to keep his protest sotto voce any longer. "The currents are so treacherous. It would be impossible for swimmers to reach you if you encountered any mishap, Sire."

John looked at his servant in surprise. It was rare that the man expressed worry unconnected to appearances or reputation. He felt unaccountably touched.

"At least let me come with you, Sire," Hudson finished his appeal. "The boat is made for five. I shall hardly crowd you. I could take the oars for you if the wind flags, Sire."

The prince hesitated. On the one hand, solitude was the whole point of this endeavour. But he could not deny that Hudson's concern was justified, as John had no prior experience of sailing and no intention of drowning. "Oh, all right then, Hudson," he said less than graciously. "I suppose a little boating could do you some good as well."

* * *

Curious, Sherlock followed the dark shape of the boat several yards above him. He had watched the blue-eyed landman and another landman in less flamboyant clothes push the little sailing boat into the sea, and then board the fragile thing. It seemed incredible foolhardy to him, putting their trust into this wooden shell and venture out onto what was, for them, hostile environment. After all, these landmen drowned so quickly.

But the boat remained afloat, and nothing disagreeable happened. On the contrary – the little craft picked up speed, driven by the steady offshore winds, and was soon clipping along at a pace that had the merman flapping his tail to keep up.

He was aware that he needed to stay well away and, above all, out of sight. There was no telling what was in that boat. Becoming inadvertently entangled in fishing nets might prove as fatal to him as being spotted by Leviathan knew what looking devices these landmen might possess.

However, long minutes passed, and nothing happened. No strange things were lowered into the water. What were they doing? It did not look like they were fishing, for neither nets nor fishing rods were in evidence. The little sailing boat was moving on a seemingly random course, along the coast for a bit, then out to the open see for a few hundred yards, back to the coast, along the coast the other way, back out to sea, and back. Sherlock smiled to himself. Maybe they were incapable of steering? It must be hellishly difficult to harness the fickle wind, after all. But on the other hand, these landmen had grown up with it. They should be able to move in it, like any merchild effortlessly learned to move with the sea currents.

Finally, the boat slowed and began to drift. What was going on? Consumed with curiosity, Sherlock swam closer to the surface, but the water's refraction made it impossible to see into the air. Finally, taking his courage in both hands, he surfaced, pushing his head out of the water just far enough to get a clear view.

It took almost a full minute for his eyes to adjust to air-vision, but even while his sight was still blurry, he realized why the boat was drifting: they had struck the sail.

When Sherlock could finally see clearly, he spotted the two landmen calmly sitting in their fragile little ship with their backs to him, and their voices drifted over to where he was floating, some dozen yards away.

They were talking! This, he told himself, was an incredible opportunity to study their speech. He should take it, learn as much as he could. After all, knowledge was infinitely preferable to prejudice. With no-one nearby to tell him that it was too dangerous or to advance any other objection, he was going to do what even the research scientists refused to do, were forbidden to do.

Letting himself slide back completely into the comforting embrace of the water, he swam to the boat, propelled by one or two powerful strokes of his tail, and surfaced again beneath the cover of the boat's rump.

Now, they were directly above him. His heart hammered with excitement. So close! Never, in several hundred years, had a merman dared venture in such direct proximity to the landmen. If they discovered him, what would happen? Would they try to kill him on sight, just for being what he was? Would the blue-eyed one's noble face contort with hate and rage? Somehow, Sherlock did not think so.

Still, it would not hurt to be too careful. He made only the movements necessary to hold his position and strove otherwise to be absolutely still and silent, awed by his own audacity. Now and then, when breathing air became difficult after fifteen minutes or so, he submerged his head to re-moisten his skin and gills before surfacing again, ignoring the peculiar sensation of his long hair sticking to his face and shoulders.

Despite the strangeness of their speech, Sherlock felt an increasing sense of connection the longer he listened. They sounded calm, relaxed. Whatever they were talking about, there was an undertone of friendliness to their voices. They certainly did not sound like bloodthirsty brutes. Also, he began to notice patterns, almost like recurring words. There was a melody to their speech, also recurring, and probably containing meaning, just like merspeech. He also realised after a while that he could distinguish their voices from each other.

Suddenly, he was consumed with the desire to know which voice was the blue-eyed one's.

This, however, would mean looking in his face, to see his lips move while he spoke. It would also mean that there was an excellent chance that Sherlock himself might be spotted. But he needed to know!

He let himself sink back down, pondering the problem. He had to see them and they must not see him. Some sort of cover, maybe, something that would not be noticed nor cause comment. A patch of loose seaweed, or driftwood. Yes.

But finding something appropriate took longer than he expected, and when he finally returned to the shore with his newly constructed camouflage, the little sailing boat had disappeared.

Panicked, he began a frantic search. Had the boat capsized? Had the landmen drowned? Had they been attacked by one of the rare sharks that occasionally wandered into these waters? It would be unusual for the creatures to be so aggressive, but that did not mean it was impossible. He swam back and forth in increasingly wide circles, sensitive nose sifting the water for the scent of blood, sharp eyes on the lookout for helpless drifting bodies or pieces of the boat.

He found nothing.

Finally and quite by accident, he spotted the abandoned boat, pulled onto the shore near a peculiar rock formation, and he felt weak with relief.

This gave him pause. It was not like him to be prone to such violent upsurges of emotion. Shaking his head ruefully at himself, he returned to the deep sea and his abode. Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he really should stop thinking so much of the blue-eyed landman, or he would develop an ulcer after all.

In a shark's eye.

* * *

"Of course I am certain, Hudson," John remarked placidly. "We've been doing this for weeks. I have been doing the steering myself for the last half a dozen times, and I do not remember you faulting my technique." He smiled. "Your concern does you credit, but in this case it's misplaced."

"But, Sire, look at the skies! There will be rain before evening, maybe even strong winds! I really don't think –"

"So I may get a little wet. So what? These are hardly my best clothes. I'll keep close to the shore, and if it really does get unpleasant, I'll be on dry land within a few minutes."

Hudson continued to look unhappy, and John was moved to place a comforting hand upon his servant's shoulder. "Do not worry yourself, Hudson. Return to the Palace and divert the King should he ask after me, would you? I really need this time alone."

It may have been this last remark that finally persuaded Hudson to do the prince's bidding, even if it was Not Done to leave the heir apparent to his own devices like this. With a final nod of assent, the servant withdrew and walked towards the horses.

Smiling happily, John pushed the small boat into the water, sloshing along until he had passed the breakers, and then he pulled himself aboard. The sail took the slight wind readily. With a sigh, the prince settled next to the rudder, took off his sodden boots, wriggling his naked toes in the sea air, and felt entirely content.

Unknown to him, grey eyes were watching him from beneath the sea.

Indeed, the wind was stronger today than before, but John relished in it. The little boat sped along, waves crashed against it and sprayed him, the sun sparkled off the waves, blinding him. It was thoroughly exhilarating. Without the cautioning presence of his servant reminding him of his everyday life, John felt utterly free, unfettered by his station, reckless and invincible. If only he could bottle this moment and take it out during the next courtly function! If only some fairy would appear right now, to grant him a wish!

"I wish to trade my life with that of a humble fisherman," John said aloud, over the gentle sounds of the surf somewhere far behind him. "I despise being the King's son. I wish to spend my life like this. Just myself, the sea, and the sky." He fell silent, considering. "Well, maybe I should like to share my life with someone. But that someone should be anything but a princess who married me because I slew a cyclop, or because I managed to find her lost footwear. Well," he allowed, "she probably wouldn't like this kind of outing anyway. It would ruin her hair and stain her glass slippers."

These and other inane comments were duly given to the patiently listening seagulls while the Prince's small boat left the coastal shallows and began to cross into the open sea.

* * *

Several yards beneath the small boat, Sherlock was moving in parallel. He had watched as the landman, whose name, as he had gathered from the conversations he had overheard, was "Sire", boarded the little craft alone. This had prompted the fruitless speculation that the two landmen may have quarrelled, and the more substantial thought that this time, there would be no conversations to listen to and, therefore, no need for his tried and tested camouflage.

And indeed, he had barely had time to pry one of the house-carriers off a rock and put it in his mouth, crushing the shell between his strong teeth and enjoying the taste of the soft flesh, when the sailing boat began to make for the open seas.

Sherlock followed, chewing, watching its progression worriedly. If Sire held this course, he would soon cross the current that was used by the merfolk for heavy goods transportation. A good, steady current near the sea bottom, its effect consisted of erratic and unpredictable vortices along the surface that could very well become dangerous for the small craft.

But what should he do? Attach himself to the little boat's rump and attempt to push it back to shore, against the wind? Impossible. Surface, and give warning? Possible due to his recently acquired grasp of the landspeech, but potentially disastrous.

Below him, his sharp eyes could just discern the glow of fluorescent lights marking the current with its steady stream of containers pulled by whales of burden. Already, the surface waters were becoming hard to navigate. The landman must surely be feeling the effects, and would turn around soon.

Besides, Sherlock himself was in a precarious legal position this close to a ship, and he had better not be spotted up here.

He had just finished thinking that when several things happened at once.

There were shouts from below; a large dark shape detached itself from the ground blue and made for the surface. Simultaneously, the sailing boat encountered a strong cross current, pushing the rump around and the sail out of the wind, which caused the boat to gybe and the boom to swing across, hitting its occupant and throwing him overboard. With Sherlock's attention diverted by the escaped whale of burden, he did not immediately realise that the little boat had become unmanned.

It took the transporters down below a few minutes to regain control of the situation and recapture the whale while Sherlock watched, worrying that they might ascend far enough to see him up here. At last, it was safe once more for him to direct his attention skywards. It was then that he noticed the splashing shape of the landman in the water above him, and the gold ring he had worn upon his head was sinking into the blue depths, coming straight towards Sherlock.

There was no question about what he would do, edict or no edict.

* * *

John surfaced, gasping, coughing, panicked. His clothes hampered his movements and seemed intent to pull him down, his eyes burned with salt, and he felt like he had swallowed half a gallon of seawater. Desperately, he tried to keep his head above water, forced to acknowledge the fact that he was about to die. He could not swim. The boat, a dozen yards away, was out of reach, and even if he could by some miracle manage to cross the distance to it, he would never be able to hoist himself aboard.

At least, he had lost his hated crown. He would die a normal man, not as heir apparent to the throne of Albion. That was something.

And then, during the last seconds granted him, he was graced with a vision.

The light filtering down into the water was reflected off metallic-looking scales and pale, hairless skin. A narrow face with a strong nose and square chin, framed by flowing black hair, was turned towards the light, and bright grey eyes looked up at him.

The vision faded as his head sank beneath the surface, and he knew he would not have the strength to regain the air. This was it – the moment when death came. He prayed that it would be quick. Should he deliberately inhale the water, or should he keep in what air he had in an effort to delay the inevitable?

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped themselves around him. Without questioning its presence, he instinctively clung to the powerful, hard, sinewy body, and then, just as he was about to lose consciousness, there was blessed air upon his face again.

He breathed gratefully, feeling himself propelled at extraordinary speed towards his boat while he coughed and choked, then his rescuer effortlessly heaved him aboard, where he lay for a while, gasping, simply glad to be alive.

When he finally found the strength to push himself upright and look over the side, the seas were devoid of any sign of his rescuer. He was alone. Nevertheless, he scrambled onto his knees, leaned over the side and called out, again and again, until a splashing sound behind him caused his voice to get stuck in his throat.

He turned around. There lay his crown in a small puddle of seawater. He threw himself to the other side and looked into the water. A single metallic glint upon a long, fish-like shape that quickly disappeared into the blue was all he saw.

"Thank you!" he yelled after it, but it was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Another successful day was drawing to a close – this one concluding the investigation of a glowlamp manufacturer's heir and her nefarious plot to murder her father by contaminating his heating system with sulphur, which had slowly poisoned him. Sherlock had traced her connection to the chemist who had manufactured the sulphur; he had managed to find an obvious, to him at least, manipulation of the underground hot spring in question and trace it to the lady via a small burn mark upon her hind fin, whereupon he had proceeded, by some judicious breaking and entering, to add more damning proof: finding the tool used for the manipulation in her possession. A simple and straight-forward chain of events, and yet overlooked by the police, who were too unobservant to notice the very suggestive injury that had first set Sherlock upon the right track.

All in all, two days well spent; and so Sherlock felt justified in rewarding himself this evening. Ignoring the recent memory of Mycroft scoffing about his obsession – and, oh! Brother Mycroft was certainly possessed of extraordinarily acerbic wit when he chose to so exert himself -, he secured his abode behind him and made for the surface.

As the deep blue gradually gave way to the greens of the warmer water, Sherlock repeatedly looked behind and below him to check for pursuers. It was, after all, possible that he was being watched. Just to be on the safe side, he increased his speed until he was swimming as fast as he could, keeping the tempo up for quite a while and veering off his course this way and that until he had come a full, if erratic, circle. He considered himself a fast swimmer, and his endurance, without undue modesty, was exceptional. Anyone following him should be in front of him now, exhausted and confused. There was no one.

These elementary precautions out of the way, he finally ascended all the way towards the surface, where he knew Sire's boat would be cruising, as it had almost every day for the past week.

Contrary to Sherlock's expectation, the landman had not forgotten about his rescuer. On the contrary - he had spent much time in his little sailing boat, calling and waiting and calling again, and generally exhibiting behaviour that Sherlock would not associate with someone who might attack him on sight. There were two explanations for this that he could think of. First, Sire had no idea about merfolk in general and the hostilities of several centuries ago in particular, and he was genuinely curious and grateful; or second, it was a trap.

Sherlock tended towards the first explanation for the simple reason that one landman, in a small fragile wooden shell upon the ocean, even armed, was no match for a merman literally in his element. If nothing else, history should have taught them that. Therefore, any trap would certainly involve more people and more boats in the vicinity. Still, for security's sake, Sherlock had allowed a whole week to elapse without once approaching the boat.

But today, he was not willing to wait any longer. He had to see him, talk to him. Whenever he was not working, his mind was dwelling upon the landman, recalling his voice, the way Sire had clung to him in his mortal fear, the way his peculiar legs had wrapped themselves around Sherlock's body, pressing distractingly close to his most sensitive region. He had smelled of animal hair, land flowers and something else, something intoxicating. Sherlock had recalled that moment again and again, and he had practiced landspeech whenever he was alone.

Upon catching sight of the little sailing boat, Sherlock felt his heart rate increase for reasons wholly unconnected to his recent exertions.

The boat was drifting, far enough from the coast to permit Sherlock to approach it without being observed from the shore. No one save Sire must see him. No one else must know that Sherlock was about to break a centuries-old edict.

He could hear the landman's voice before breaking the surface. Apparently, Sire was again calling for his mysterious rescuer, undeterred by the fact that no-one had answered for a week. Sherlock surfaced.

"You saved my life," Sire was calling out to the sea, facing away and thus presenting his well-formed, broad-shouldered back to the merman. "Please don't be afraid. I know you're down there somewhere, and I know you're not just a dolphin. Dolphins don't have arms. You have arms. I felt them. And you must have hands, and fingers, or you wouldn't have been able to throw my crown back aboard. Thank you for that, by the way. Father would have been quite put out if I had come back without it. More put out, in fact, than he would have been if I hadn't come back at all. Wait, no, that's not true. That was an unfair thing to say. Forget I said it. Anyway, I want to thank you. Please show yourself." He fell silent and slumped despondently.

Sherlock used the pause to completely evacuate the water from his lungs and call out, "Must you shout so?" The hard consonants and monotonous cadence still felt strange to his tongue, used to the chanted string of vowels that made up merspeech, but he had practiced, and he felt competent to get his meaning across.

The reaction was spectacular. Sire started violently and whirled around, his beautiful sea-coloured eyes growing as wide as that of a deep-sea fish, almost upsetting his balance with his sudden movement and throwing his arms wide to prevent going overboard. The little boat shook, the sail billowing this way and that in the still evening air.

The sudden flurry of movement, in turn, startled Sherlock badly. Thinking he was being attacked after all, he dove back under the surface, his tail fin inadvertently splashing water all over the landman.

* * *

"Wait!" John called, his heart beating wildly, water dripping off his hair and nose. He leaned over the side and peered into the water, but he could see nothing. "Come back! I'm sorry!"

Several minutes passed, and John began to fear that his senses had deceived him, that he had not in fact heard a melodious voice nor seen a young man apparently stand to his hips in the water and then disappear in a flash of metallic scales and fins, or, worse, that he had succeeded in scaring him off for good.

Then he saw something glint down below, and seconds later a human head broke the surface, hair clinging to the narrow face, water streaming from nose and mouth. A slim, beautifully muscled upper body followed, rising until the water covered but his lower body, where John could see a suggestion of greenish-golden scales that reflected the sunlight in glints and sparkles. Long hair framed his angular face, falling like a shimmering black velvet shawl around his strong shoulders. There was a pearly sheen to the being's pale skin that added to the overall impression of unearthly alienness.

John stared, stunned. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

The merman – for that was what he was, surely, a creature of legend come to life and floating in front of him – returned his appraisal stare for stare.

It was the sardonic tilt to the other's head and the amused glint in the storm-grey eyes that finally enabled John to recollect himself. His royal training came to his aid as he realized that he suddenly was acting as ambassador, opening diplomatic relations with this being of the sea. Of course, he was not wearing his boots or crown, which were both stowed below deck. Also, he was wet, his hair clinging to his skull and slowly drying, salty crusts forming upon his eyebrows and moustache.

Well, he could but make the best of it, just like he had been trained. Pulling back his shoulders, he inclined his head politely. "How do you do, sir. I am John, Prince of Albion. I am pleased and honoured to make your acquaintance."

The merman's eyes widened. "John?" he half sang, half said. "But I thought –" He interrupted himself. "Of course. How stupid of me. John." Closing his eyes briefly in what John could clearly identify as self-directed annoyance, he likewise assumed a more formal posture. "My name is Sherlock. The pleasure and honour are all mine." In addition to the charming singsong to his voice, he also had the most curious accent, lilting vowels and carefully enunciated consonants, words flowing into each other as if he did not care where they ended nor began.

John was aware of a delighted smile that was fighting to spread upon his face. He was talking to a merman! His mysterious rescuer was real after all, a being of flesh and blood. "Sherlock," John repeated carefully. A strange name, but what did he expect? Pushing aside his fascination with an effort, he concentrated on what he had wanted, for a whole week, to tell his rescuer. "Thank you for saving my life," he said, solemnly. "I am eternally in your debt."

The merman nodded with a touch of impatience. "You are foolhardy to venture out here if you cannot breathe underwater, nor keep your head above it," he stated. "So many of you die; so many of your wooden vessels sink to litter our grounds. One might think you would learn eventually. You were lucky I was in the vicinity."

Surprisingly, this overt criticism of his behaviour and implied slight to his intelligence, something he as prince was not at all used to, did not irritate him. On the contrary - the merman's honest words were quite refreshing. Feeling he had been given license to be less formal as well, he abandoned his rigid pose and sank down upon the side of his boat. Besides, he could not deny the veracity of Sherlock's words. "I know," he said ruefully. "Again, I thank you. In fact, I shall reward you, if you would but tell me what would be adequate. I have never met one of your people before, and I am somewhat at a loss to know what I can do that would be of use to you."

The merman's face showed an expression of sardonic amusement. "Reward me? No reward is necessary. I acted on impulse, as I would free any dolphin from your fishing nets if I happened to be nearby." He looked away, towards the shore. "But I must ask you to tell no-one of the fact that you have met and talked to me. I am at present breaking a law, outdated and non-sensical though it may be."

John nodded, distracted by the sight of Sherlock's tail that he could barely discern moving steadily beneath the merman and keeping him half out of the water. "Of course," he said quickly, afraid to be caught staring but unable to avert his eyes from the tantalizing, alien sight. "I won't tell a living soul, not that anyone would credit me. We do not believe you exist outside of fairytales."

This garnered him a surprised look. "Indeed! You do not record your history, then?"

"Yes, we do," John said, somewhat on the defensive. "We have historians, and there are written records in the great libraries and universities. But I don't think your people are mentioned anywhere, at least not by the term 'merfolk'. Unless there is another name by which you call yourselves?"

Sherlock appeared to consider this. "'Merfolk' is an accurate translation of our word for it, I assume. Our scientists have others, but they are really only translations of the same concept into ancient tongues that are not spoken anymore. Some use the name of the geographical region that a certain legend claims is our ancestral home." He sang a succession of vowels and frowned. "It is impossible to say in the air, I am afraid."

John could not help himself. "Would you say it again?" The short song was utterly beautiful.

The merman smiled quizzically but complied. It sounded like ah-ll-ah-nn-ih.

"That is your word for what you are?" There was something familiar about the syllables. John felt that he never been so fascinated in his life.

"According to some," Sherlock said. "And while we are on the subject of words, why does your companion call you 'Sire'? Is it a title?"

"It's a form of address," John said quickly, not wanting to dwell any more upon his royal descent than he had already. "But, how have you heard it? Can you come onto the shore?"

"No. We lack the peculiar second set of arms that you possess to walk, and the air is not for us anyway. I have been listening while you two talked, and I heard him address you thus. Do not look at me like that. Of course I observed you. How do you think did I learn your speech?"

"I – have not thought about it," John admitted, still stuck upon the image of having four arms, two of them for walking. "Do you mean you learned our language by listening? But that is fantastic."

"Oh, tut, it is not that formidable an accomplishment," Sherlock said dismissively. "Your speech is very simple compared to ours. It is a mere stringing together of words, with the meaning determined by the word order. Hardly any grammar, and you do not use cadence at all. Once I had determined that, the rest followed easily. The most difficult part was identifying and memorizing enough words. I have deciphered much more complicated codes than this. Any halfway observant and intelligent child could do it." Despite his words, John thought he could detect something akin to pride in Sherlock's words.

He could not fault him. John could not conceive accomplishing anything of the kind himself. Even with patient tutoring, he was still far from proficient with the languages spoken in the neighbouring kingdoms, and they all had common roots. "Well, I think it is fantastic," he said with genuine admiration. "You must be possessed of extraordinary gifts to be able to do it, and in so short a time, too."

At these words, Sherlock smiled with almost childlike pleasure, looking away bashfully. He suddenly appeared very human and approachable, and John lost some of his awe, replaced by genuine liking.

Indeed, they were almost chatting like old friends. John thought he had never been part of such an intelligent conversation. In fact, he could not remember talking as an equal to anyone, including his father. Sherlock's refreshing lack of respect for John's exalted position was immensely liberating.

John sat more comfortably upon the little boat's side, casually putting one foot in the water. However, he noticed that the merman was obliged to hold his position halfway out of the water by constant motions of his long tail, which was no doubt strenuous. "Would you like to hold on to the boat?" he invited him, indicating the stern boards in front of him. "It's surely less exhausting than swimming all the time."

Sherlock hesitated, then followed the suggestion, putting his surprisingly normal-looking forearms onto the planks and peering curiously at the lacquered surface. Looking up, he fixed his grey eyes upon John. "I have a question," he said, with less assurance than he had heretofore displayed. "It is rather personal, but I hope you can forgive me. I have, as I said, been observing you for some time. You say you are a prince - which, incidentally, is somewhat ironic -, which surely means that you are comfortably situated with no need to hunt for your food or worry about a place of shelter for sleeping. Your clothing and the crown you own, even if you have chosen not to wear it today, seem to confirm this. Why, then, have I seen such a dejected expression in your eyes whenever you came here? What is it that saddens you so?"

John looked down to study his hands and the way his fingers played with the brocade fabric of his trousers. How to respond? Should he smile, say that it was nothing, and change the subject? But he dearly wanted to talk to someone about how he felt, and there was literally no-one in all of Albion in whom he could confide. It was a sad state of affairs, he mused, to find that his first and only real friend was a merman.

He sighed. "You are very observant." Raising his eyes, he regarded his new friend and wondered if the merfolk had similar problems, or if their world was free of the concerns that so often plagued his life. "I may be rich and privileged, but my position holds a great deal of responsibility," he began. "I have to play a role, the role of heir apparent, at any minute of every hour of every day. I hate it. My father, King James, has many enemies, who would gladly seize any weakness to pressure him into doing their bidding, and they regard me as one weakness. I have never kept secret the fact that I do not look forward to becoming king. It would be an understatement to say that we are not on the best of terms."

He fell silent. All of that was true, but none of it was the true reason. He was lonely, pure and simple. His existence was dull and abhorrent to his character. Sometimes, he felt like he was living another's life, while the true royal-born son sat aboard his little fishing boat and wondered what had happened to his servants.

But those were mere fancies, and nothing he should tell his new acquaintance. At least not today.

Sherlock was nodding, apparently content to take John's words at face value. "That would be a difficult situation," he said with an ironic half-smile upon his pale lips. "And so you come here to escape."

"I love the sea," John confided. "Everything seems so insignificant when I am here."

The merman nodded briefly. "Excuse me," he said abruptly, letting go of the boat and sliding cleanly into the water.

John, confused, leaned over the side. There, about a yard beneath the surface, he could see the mass of Sherlock's long black hair curling gently about his head. The merman appeared to be floating, almost motionless. The next instant, he appeared again, hair sticking to his shoulders, water streaming from nose and mouth, and casually retook his position, arms leaning against the side of the boat.

"It was becoming hard to breathe," he explained in response to John's befuddled look.

"But you can breathe air, obviously."

"For a while. It becomes more and more difficult as the tissues dry out. I estimate I would lose consciousness after a while and be dead within half a day, less if the sun is out."

John was alarmed. "But I hope it does not harm you to be talking to me? I mean, you do not risk anything by being here with me?"

"Not physically, if I do not overdo it," Sherlock said dismissively. "Legally, it is a different matter. We are forbidden by law to approach you. I risk banishment if I am caught. But do not worry, no-one ventures out here into the shallows, and I do not intend to honour a law that makes no sense."

"Forbidden to approach us? But why?"

"Because of past history."

John looked blank.

The merman took pity upon him. "Centuries ago, there was war. My people, of course, claim that yours started it. The truth, even if we do not admit it, is that no-one can say for certain. Only one thing is proven: There were many casualties on both sides. Since then, we have been in hiding. That is the short version. The long and florid version takes up several large tomes and has given rise to quite a few stirring theatrical productions that either cast landmen as quintessential evil beings, brutally slaying innocent merfolk and utterly laying waste to everything we accomplished, or they depict gripping epic battles with heroic merfolk who, after much hardship and long monologues of personal woe, valiantly vanquish the vile airbreathers." He snorted. "Utter drivel, of course."

His tone was so comical that John could not help but laugh.

Sherlock, too, smiled. "That is better. If you are not careful, you will develop a permanent frown line. That would be such a pity."

To his surprise, John blushed and found himself smiling bashfully in response to the compliment. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls," he teased gently, amazed at his audacity.

Sherlock looked confused. "I do not. Their appearance does not interest me."

"No, no, I meant – It was a -" John fell silent as the implications of Sherlock's words sank in. He blushed again.

"I must leave you," Sherlock said abruptly while John was still groping for words. "There is something that requires my attention, I am afraid."

"Will I see you again?" John asked quickly, hopefully.

The merman threw him a sardonic glance. "If you insist on risking your life like this, I daresay you will. Few things would sadden me more than finding your lifeless body, ripped to pieces by sharks, food for the fishes." His stern expression dissolved into a beaming smile. "Be here in the evening, as often as you can. I shall find you."

A splash of shimmering tail fin, and he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

That evening, when John led his horse from the stable, he did not notice the man hovering just behind the corner of the small outhouse, watching him with a calculating expression. The prince had hardly vanished from view when the man was joined by a second. A whispered conversation ensued.

"He stopped taking his manservant a week ago."

"Then he goes alone each time?"

"Oh yes. I already scouted the way he takes. There is an ideal spot not far from here. No one will see anything."

"Where does he go, anyway? What is it he does?"

"Goes boating, as far as I have observed. Goes sailing for a few hours, then comes back."

"He meets no one?"

"No. I followed him a few times. He finds his boat, gets in, sails a bit, comes back to shore, returns here. No one else is with him the whole time. His boat isn't joined by others either. No, he is quite alone."

"Excellent. Then no one will miss him for hours. We'll act tomorrow."

* * *

"So, you cannot swim, but some of your people can?" Sherlock asked, amazed. "Why in Neptune's name do you not learn it, then?"

John raised an ironic eyebrow. "It is Not Done for the prince to learn something like that. Being able to swim is not pertinent to ruling a kingdom, after all."

"I see." The merman shifted his position, one arm hooked over the little boat's side, half in and half out of the water, chewing thoughtfully upon a reddish-brown piece of algae and spitting out bits of it from time to time.

John, meanwhile, was puffing contentedly upon his pipe, his bare feet once more dangling in the sea and the coast several miles behind his back. As far as he was concerned, life did not get any better than this. "I wish you could come visit me in the palace," he said wistfully after a minute spent in companionable silence. "There is a moat around it. It's not very deep, but the water in it is nearly black. No one would be able to see you."

Sherlock's face twisted into a grimace of disgust. "And do you expect me to breathe putrescent sweet water, John, let alone risk all the skin infections one is likely to get from being in it? No, thank you. I am not a carp. Besides, how should I get there even if I were foolish enough to embark upon such a venture?"

John shrugged easily. "There is a slight current, so I suppose the water must come from somewhere. But I could always take you there in a tub. We have coaches, and horses. It would be child's play."

"And then you would boast to your servants that you have caught a really big fish, is that it?"

John, who had by now learned to take his friend's strange humour the way it was intended, laughed heartily. "That would never work. You don't smell like a fish, for one thing." This was true. If anything, Sherlock smelled faintly salty, and wholly pleasant. "And you are much too sarcastic. I never met a fish who talked back the way you do."

"Ah, but I have a natural advantage over most fishes, my dear Prince." He paused dramatically. "I can swim exceedingly fast."

John laughed again. It felt wonderful. "So, what have I been doing before I came here this evening?" he asked, playfully holding out his hands for the merman to inspect – a game they had fallen into some days ago.

Sherlock took John's right hand in his free one and turned it around and over, his keen grey eyes darting here and there. "First, you were on the sand, training your swordsmanship. You used a one-handed blade and a shield in your other hand. Then, you tested your prowess with bow and arrows, and for quite a while, too, if I am not mistaken. On coming here, you chose a route that took you past a swamp or mire or something similar, and you came here by horse." He smiled expectantly. "Well? How did I do?"

"You're right on all counts," John exclaimed, holding on to the hand that had examined his. It felt cool and smooth, not at all slimy, and surprisingly soft. "And now, you must explain to me how you did it."

"Simplicity itself." Sherlock looked down briefly at their joined hands, then smiled at the landman. "These abrasions, as I have learned, are typical of holding the one-handed swords you landfolk use, and they are reddened, so they were made no later than today. Also, there are still some faint impressions upon your left hand where the leather guard was tied that protects your hand from the feathering of the arrows. Remember, you showed me these marks upon the third day of our acquaintance. Combined with the reddening of your right index, middle and ring fingers that hold the bow string, the inference of a bow is obvious. Then, these faint impressions upon your left forearm were made by the straps of your shield, but they are very much faded, which leads me to conclude that they were made before you donned your arm guard. As for your way here, there are still some small specks of dark earth such as one finds in areas where little oxygen is present. As I thought it unlikely that you should have been near one of our deep-sea hot-water vents, I deduced a small, stagnant bog or something similar. And, forgive me, the scent of the beast upon which you rode lingers upon you. I have noticed it upon you practically every day that we met." His thumb stroked over John's hand as he spoke, seemingly without Sherlock noticing. "Have I made it sufficiently clear?"

"Admirably." John paused, gathering his courage. "I apologize in advance if I offend you, but there is something upon which I find myself quite unable to stop dwelling. There is no way to put it that will not sound absolutely embarrassing, so here goes. I have been wondering what your tail feels like. May I touch it?"

For a moment, the merman stared at him wordlessly, and John thought with a sinking feeling that he had indeed irredeemably offended his friend. After all, what did he know about social taboos of the merfolk?

"On one condition," Sherlock said finally, looking at the sail flapping gently in the faint evening breeze. "You must show me how to harness the wind. In fact, if you'll help me up in a minute, I'll join you in your little shell."

He dove back beneath the surface, while John, delighted, watched him float and saturate his lungs with water. Presently, the merman reappeared, wet and glistening, and reached up an imperious arm.

John grabbed him, Sherlock gave a mighty flap with his tail and propelled himself out of the water and over the side, and a second later he was aboard, falling heavily upon the hard planks. For a moment, John was afraid that his friend had hurt himself, for he was lying awkwardly upon his belly and holding himself upright with one arm while John, drenched to the skin, held him by the other. Then Sherlock curled his tail under himself and settled into a position that looked vaguely as if he were sitting, apparently none the worse for wear.

The slightly translucent skin of the tail, now exposed to John's regard, was apparently covered by scales that from this close looked not fish-like, but rather reptilian in nature.

The prince realised he was staring and directed his attention to the rudder and to finding out the direction of what little wind there was.

"Oh, for Neptune's sake," Sherlock said irritably, "go ahead and touch it, John. You have hardly been able to take your eyes off it since we met. Get it over and done with already."

John smiled at the less than gracious invitation, so typical of his friend. Reaching out a careful hand, he ran the tips of his fingers over the area where Sherlock's outer thigh would be if he had legs. The skin was smooth and slightly warm, and the scales were indeed akin to those of a snake, surprisingly pleasant to the touch. Growing bolder, John found he could move the scales away with his finger if he stroked the tail against the grain, and beneath, he encountered very soft, unexpectedly warm skin.

Sherlock shivered.

At once, John withdrew his hand. "I am sorry. Have I hurt you?"

"Not precisely," Sherlock responded with an obvious effort to keep his voice steady. "But I would rather you do not do that again unless you know what you are doing, and why."

John blushed crimson and looked away in mortification. There was no way he could misunderstand that. "I am sorry," he repeated. Then he threw his friend a sidelong glance. "You could have warned me."

"You are not listening, John. I did not forbid you to do that. I merely want you to be aware of what it is you are doing." He smiled mischievously. John noticed that his normally pale cheeks were still slightly flushed. Obviously, his reaction had been a strong one. "Besides, I hope that, as a way to make amends, you will permit me similar liberties now."

John could not help it – he laughed. "I do believe you are flirting with me, Sherlock," he cried.

"You have a remarkable gift for stating the obvious," the merman returned. "Of course I am flirting with you. And now that you have come to know me better, in a manner of speaking, would you permit me in turn to touch the remarkable fur that I see peeking out of your sodden garments? Speaking of which, you might as well remove them. I am naked, after all."

"He makes me breathless," John thought, striving to keep up. "Yes, you may touch my chest hair, and no, I am not about to strip completely. You are naked as a matter of course, and you are obviously not as, well, exposed as I would be if I did strip."

He began to undo the fastenings of his shirt as he spoke, feeling his face grow hot once more. Another question was burning in his mind. Now that the water was no longer concealing Sherlock's body from his eyes, John could not help but notice that he could see no external genitalia. How did they...? And for that matter, just how fish-like were the merfolk? Did they lay eggs?

Sherlock was regarding him with a thoughtful expression. "What is that charming blush supposed to mean, John? And why would you be more exposed if you were as naked as I?"

John's flush intensified. "I have – that is to say, my body is..." He trailed off, conscious of the merman's curious gaze upon him. "Oh, for heaven's sake, I shall just show you. After all, it appears I have already sexually molested you without meaning to. The level of this conversation seems beyond saving as it is." He bent to undo his trousers as well as his shirt.

"Wise decision," Sherlock commented. "I have found that a demonstration is invariably clearer and less prone to misunderstandings than any explanation. Besides, you are shivering. I should not wish you to catch a cold. In fact, I -"

He fell silent, staring. John's pants were around his ankles, and what had become revealed clearly startled the merman. "John," he said, eyes wide, "you are – how did I –"

Self-conscious, John redid his trousers, but left his wet shirt where it was. "See what I mean? There are more differences between us than the obvious one."

"Quite so." Sherlock, too, was flushed with embarrassment. It was quite a change from his earlier assured behaviour. "Forgive me, but is this your normal state?"

"My normal…?"

"You are not now in a state of physical arousal?"

"N-no."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Then John decided that there was no way he could embarrass himself any further, having literally bared himself completely to his friend. "I take it that your kind is, well, constructed differently than us."

"Not so differently." Sherlock seemed to have recovered his equanimity, for his manner was once again his usual off-hand one. "On the contrary - from what I have just observed, there are striking similarities. However, it would constitute a fluidic disadvantage for us to have such jutting protrusions upon our bodies, not to mention being somewhat uncomfortable at high speeds."

John cringed. And then he felt a surprising surge of arousal as his imagination supplied an approximation of what these sensations might be like.

Sherlock smiled briefly. His quick eye had obviously not missed his friend's reaction.

"So," John asked, growing bold once more in the face of that smirk, "where do you hide yours, then?" And that, he added silently, had to be the single most adolescent question he had asked since he came of age.

He had the pleasure to see the merman blush once more. "There is a slit," Sherlock said, with studied dignity. His blush intensified, but he went on relentlessly. "The organs are concealed behind it, on the inside. It is only when we become aroused that they swell and protrude the way yours apparently do all the time." He was clearly striving for a detached tone of voice even as his whole upper body flushed crimson.

John looked, with all the self-assurance of a man who had dropped his trousers and was therefore entitled to reciprocation. And indeed, below the merman's navel, there was a certain symmetry to the scales, indicating a perpendicular opening.

Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the situation became clear to John, and he cracked up laughing.

Sherlock smiled fondly, watching him catch his breath. "It is somewhat hilarious, is it not? By the way, you still owe me a touching of your chest hair."

"Be my guest," John said, still chortling.

Sherlock leaned forward, supporting himself upon one arm, and gently carded his long, thin white fingers through the coarse russet hairs.

John fell silent, eyes wide, and stared at his friend. Clearing his throat, he asked hesitantly, "Not that I do not enjoy this, but what exactly is happening here?"

Without stopping the movement of his hand, Sherlock smiled up at him. "Must you truly ask? It should be obvious, my dear fellow. I quite find myself liking you, and I daresay that you return the sentiment. Why else would you spend so much time with me, even go out of your way to seek my company? And the same, be assured, is true for me. Believe you me; it is the most natural thing in the world, both above and below the sea, to seek this kind of contact."

"Even if we're both male?"

Sherlock looked at him with astonishment, and the movement in John's chest hair ceased. "What difference does that make?" His eyes narrowed. "Do not tell me that you landfolk have any moral objections to non-reproductive affection. I hear there is a small enclave of merfolk, far away from here on the other side of the globe, where they think that way. Preposterous, if you ask me, to limit oneself like this, not to mention bad for our resources."

Once again, confronted with the merman's cheerful disrespect, John found himself questioning his beliefs rather than feel offended. It was becoming a usual occurrence for him to come home after a talk with Sherlock with one more pillar of his philosophy deconstructed, and the wonderful thing was that he only ever felt enriched by it. "I take it you're not married, then," he ventured.

"Married?" Sherlock's grey eyes looked confused. "What does that mean?"

"Wed. Bound to a wife." John was surprised. It was rare for the merman to not know a word, so much so that John had almost forgotten that Sherlock was speaking a foreign language. "You know, a man and a woman, when they love each other, or," and here he could not prevent a trace of bitterness from entering his voice, "when it's politically indicated, go before a priest and vow eternal faithfulness, in sickness and in health, until death do them part. None of them may have another partner from that day on, and they should preferably be virgin when they marry."

"And there are people who do that voluntarily?" A world of disbelief lay in Sherlock's voice. "I understand about taking a mate, and there are, naturally, people who prefer each other's company over that of any other, but why should that be formalised in such a manner? No, John, I am not married, and I do not believe I should ever do so even if it were our custom. We have our share of stupid laws, but that is not one of them."

John smiled fondly. "Well, I am not married either, but if my father had his wish, I should be. The kingdom needs an heir, after all." He waved his hand, dismissing the topic. "But you have stopped your examination, Sherlock."

The merman, too, smiled. "So I have." The long, white fingers started moving again. "Of course, I have observed that other places of your body are also covered in hair. I wonder if it would feel the same there?"

For a moment, John actually considered granting this request as well. After all, he had gone quite far already, and if he were honest with himself, the situation, while being embarrassing in a hilarious way, had yet to become distressing.

But there were several things that led to him reconsider. For one, it was growing rapidly cooler, now that the sun was touching the horizon, and for another, he was noticing that Sherlock was already having difficulty breathing the air that was unmistakably drying his skin.

And so, he gently shook his head. "Not today. Tomorrow, maybe. You're overtaxing yourself again, Sherlock. I'd much rather throw you back overboard now."

"I assure you I am perfectly all right, John."

"Yes, and I should like you to remain that way. It's late. There's always tomorrow, my friend."


	5. Chapter 5

"… which summarises the Pandaran situation." Mycroft smiled ruefully. "Somewhat complicated, as you can see, Sherlock, so I should appreciate some help from your side." The portly merman paused. "If you can spare the attention, that is."

Sherlock directed his gaze away from the intricate carvings in the stone walls of Mycroft's abode to scowl at his brother in silent refusal.

Mycroft sighed and adjusted his position upon his opulent chair, curling his tail more comfortably around him. "I am aware of your disinclination to involve yourself with politics, but sooner or later, you will not be able to evade your responsibilities any longer."

"I have never accepted them as my responsibilities, therefore I cannot be evading them", Sherlock stated, sounding petulant in his own ears. "We both know that my talents lie in another direction, and I have proven that I may do valuable work with them, for all that the family still views them as a mere hobby."

"I am not having this discussion with you again, Sherlock. We can none of us choose our position. I may be the elder, but that does not absolve you from what light duties you have."

Sherlock scowled some more. Mycroft was right, and the younger merman did not much care for that fact. Soon, he would have to acknowledge that he had come of age a few years ago, and that the carefree time spent concentrating upon his own interests and honing his abilities would be over, overtaken by hereditary responsibilities.

On seeing his brother's disgruntled expression, Mycroft's own face softened. "Oh, don't look like that, Sherlock. It doesn't mean the end of everything, you know. You can still do your investigations, just not during every hour of every day."

The steady current that drifted through the barred openings of Mycroft's abode picked up a little, sweeping both mermen's long black hair to one side and bringing with it a scent of the nearby coral reefs, but Sherlock was oblivious to it. Increased courtly responsibilities would mean less time spent with John, and, more critically, more danger incurred when seeking the landman's company. Sherlock had been lucky so far that his refusal to be saddled with a guard had been tolerated, but sooner or later, the emperor would see fit to ignore his wishes in favour of standard court procedures, and then things would really become difficult, if not impossible.

Something of his thoughts must have reflected on his face, for Mycroft raised both arms in invitation. "Come here, little brother," he said softly.

Sherlock readily complied, floating off his chair with a few gentle flaps of his fins and drifting towards Mycroft, cutting across the gentle current and, when he reached Mycroft, curling his long body around his brother's with the ease of familiarity. Arms and tails twined together upon the chair, and for a while, both mermen silently enjoyed the comfort of touch so necessary to their species.

"You are still seeing the landman, aren't you?" Mycroft said after a long moment.

Sherlock tensed, and his heart rate picked up noticeably. He had never been able to keep anything from his brother for long. "Who else knows?" he asked, striving to keep his voice level.

Mycroft hugged him closer. "Nobody. Don't worry. I shouldn't know either if it weren't for the fact that I see you gazing towards the surface and smiling softly to yourself whenever you think yourself unobserved."

"I shall cease to do that, then."

"That is not the point. Sherlock, I do not understand you. You are courting immense danger, and needlessly, as far as I can see. We are so similar in everything else that it confuses me to see you so absorbed with something the value of which I cannot fathom. I shall never ask you again, but, please, try to explain this to me just this once."

The younger merman reached up to sweep his long hair away from where it was curling in front of his eyes while he considered his answer. Mycroft had always been his only confidante, indeed the only merman who understood him, for he shared Sherlock's particular talent for using his senses and his mind. But he was who he was, and sometimes, Sherlock did not know where his elder brother's loyalties truly lay.

"They are not evil, Mycroft," he finally said. "Not intrinsically. Not the way the academicians make them out to be. They have honour, and science, and art, just like us. Yes, conflict and greed too, but again, they are very similar to us in this as well. We're not infallible either – just look at the Pandaran situation. I am convinced that we could learn much from them, and they from us, if only we talked to each other."

Mycroft angled to head to look at him, and Sherlock could see that his brother was honestly trying to see Sherlock's side, but finally, the big merman slowly shook his head. "I deduce from this that you've actually talked to him, and I shudder to think how often you must have risked banishment by being close enough to him to learn his language. Sherlock! It is not like you to do something as foolhardy as this without a good reason. What made you approach him in the first place? More importantly, why can't you desist?"

Sherlock gently disengaged himself to float in front of his brother. He should have known that nothing less than the full truth would satisfy brother Mycroft. "He fascinates me," he confessed. "He calls to me, even when I can't hear him. Being away from him is time spent anticipating when I can see him again. When I first saw him, it was due to a mere accident, but he has been on my mind ever since."

The elder merman nodded. "And does he feel the same?"

"I cannot say, but I have hopes that he does. The landfolk think differently about these things. But if he does, it may ultimately help both our people. You see, Mycroft, he is the son of the king of Albion."

"What an amazing coincidence."

Sherlock smiled his agreement. "Albion is but a small kingdom, but if we can establish diplomatic relations with them, it is a first step towards finally ending this stupid cold war. I have no doubt that, in the fullness of time, everyone will benefit.

There was another long pause. "I see," Mycroft finally said. "You've fallen in love with him, and now you try to justify the risks you are taking by claiming hypothetical and improbable future consequences."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Precisely and succinctly put, brother mine. Do you think the emperor would buy it?"

Mycroft shook his head, smiling. He, too, pushed himself away from his chair and swam the short distance to the stone crates that were lined up along the far wall. Lifting the lid of one, he extracted a handful of mussels and held them out in invitation. "He would no doubt be pleased that you should show efforts to think politically, but I doubt he will give it more than five minute's consideration."

The younger merman joined him and took the mussels, crunching one of them gratefully. "Oh well, it will be worth a try."

The grey eyes so similar to Sherlock's own stared at him in shock. "You do not seriously propose to so much as mention the word 'landfolk' in the emperor's hearing, do you? Sherlock, you know that even your position does not grant you infinite protection. The law is the law, for us as much as for anyone else."

"Don't worry, brother mine. I'll only do that as a last resort." He looked at the north wall, where the algae were slowly changing colour. "Sun's going down. I have to be on my way. Thanks for the mussels."

Mycroft ate a mussel and watched him swim off, shaking his head ponderously. "I certainly hope you'll be careful, brother mine," he said softly through his mouthful to a passing clown fish. "Else I cannot cover for you."

* * *

Without looking back, John mounted his horse and bent low over the animal's neck to avoid being seen at the last moment. But no one hailed him, and finally, the confines of the Palace were behind him.

Singing softly to himself, the prince rode smiling, anticipating the next few hours spent with his friend of the sea. These daily conversations had quickly become the highlight of his existence, or, if he were honest, the only thing that currently made his life bearable.

What a pity that he could tell no one else of Sherlock, of the marvel that he was by virtue of his being, and more still of his alien philosophy! Still, John was finding himself increasingly thinking in ways that he was certain the merman would have applauded, even imparting the wisdom he had learned from Sherlock during court proceedings, which had more than once garnered him a surprised look from the elders.

Wrapped in these thoughts, John had just passed a rock outcropping and was about to urge his horse to a faster pace when a sound came to his ears. It sounded like a cry for help.

The prince halted his horse. "Hello? Is anybody there?"

There was a brief silence. Then a man's voice came: "Thank God! Help! Please! I cannot move!"

John turned his horse's head about, trying to pinpoint the source of the cry. "Where are you?"

"Over here! I can't see the road. Please! Help me!"

Deciding he knew now from where the voice came, John dismounted and led his horse off the path and over the uneven ground. The land here undulated gently with hills and valleys, strewn with rocks and peppered with small bushes, making it difficult to see very far. In the distance, the sounds of the sea could be heard. "Are you injured?" he called.

"I fear my leg is broken, Sir," came the man's voice again. "My horse suddenly threw me off and ran towards the coast. Oh, it hurts."

John hastened his steps. Rounding another bush, he could see the man lying amongst the moss and heather, clutching his leg. "Fear not, I shall help you, my good man. My horse can carry you -"

He got no further, for another man, hidden behind the bush, had stepped up and hit the back of his head with a bludgeon. The crown went flying, and the prince went down like a stone and lay still.

* * *

For the third time in as many minutes, Sherlock surfaced, blinking his eyes free of water and waiting for his vision to clear in order to check the water surface for John's boat, but even with air vision restored, the horizon remained obstinately clear of the triangular sail. Meanwhile, the sun had already gone down, reds and violets streaking the sky and telling him that it was now the time when they normally took their leave of each other.

John had not come. For the first time since they had started seeing each other, the landman had failed to meet his friend.

Sherlock dove back down, trying to calm his rising anxiety. There might be a perfectly innocent reason for John's non-appearance. His courtly responsibilities might have interfered, most likely. His horse might have gone lame or otherwise injured itself, necessitating his return to the palace. He might have fallen ill. There could be any number of other obstacles that might have kept him, things to do with the normal life of a landman that Sherlock, even after weeks of regular study of one of them, was not even aware of.

But even as he was telling himself all this, he found himself swimming ever closer to the shore, searching for some clue and not certain if he would recognize it as such even if he did find something. His strong, lithe body easily sped along close to the sea bottom, small fish darting away right and left as the water grew steadily warmer and shallower. He soon found the place where John's boat was moored as it had been since the evening before, small waves lapping gently at the rump and the tinkling sound of sand and small stones being moved back and forth by the gentle surf filling the merman's ears.

So close to dry land, the water in which he was floating was less than three feet deep, and the risk of being seen from the coast was enormous. Disregarding this, Sherlock carefully raised his head above the water surface.

The rocky beach was deserted. No animal larger than a crab was moving. There seemed to be no fresh tracks close by to indicate that anyone had been here since yesterday. However, to make absolutely certain of this, he would have to leave the water. There was no one here, but that might change at any moment, and once out of the water, reduced to pulling himself along by his arms, he would not be able to move very fast. Maybe if he waited a little longer and used the cover of darkness…? But no. By then, the light would be too bad to see anything.

Besides, at this moment, John probably was back in the Palace, seething at being held up but perfectly all right, and Sherlock would be risking his life for nothing.

Reluctantly, he let himself sink back down. There was nothing he could do, short of trying to find and use the connection between the sea and the moat around the Palace of which John had spoken, if it even existed, and risking Leviathan knew what consequences if he were discovered on the off chance of overhearing something that might give him a clue. Sherlock had been known to take risks in his time, but this was foolhardy even for him. No, he would just have to accept that he had too little information to act sensibly, and so he swam slowly back towards the deeper blue.

But as the cooler waters and navigation lights of the way home greeted him with their familiarity, he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.

* * *

When John came back to himself, he was lying upon a stone bench. His surroundings were dimly illuminated by a weak light that merely served to emphasize the shadows. There was unhewn rock above his head, as if he were in a natural cave. The smell of wet stone and earth was strong, and the air was moist and cold, making him glad of his woollen and silk clothes.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. His head ached, but he did not think anything was damaged too badly. How had he ended up here? The last thing he recalled was coming to the aid of an injured traveller. Then memory returned. It had been a trap. He had been assaulted. Ignoring the residual ache in his head, he sat up abruptly, blazing with indignation.

Looking around, he saw the indistinct shapes of two men in the gloom of a cave that was barely illuminated by one lamp. Two chairs and a rickety table that held the lamp were the only attempts at furnishing that he could see.

Close by, the weak light from the lamp was reflected off the dark surface of a pool. The sight of the water briefly made him think of the sea and of Sherlock, who would even now be waiting for him, if he hadn't already left. This thought brought home the realisation that he had no idea how much time had passed.

There was a clinking sound as John moved, and he found that his right foot was shackled and fastened with a chain to the bench upon which he had been lying. This indignity provided the final incentive to his building fury.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, not quite as loudly as he had intended, but still with the full force of his princely authority behind it.

The men looked at each other, then one of them rose and stepped forward. "Very sorry for the disrespectful treatment, Sire," he said in a surprisingly cultured voice, "but we didn't think you'd come along with us voluntarily."

"Certainly not!" John retorted sharply, glad to find himself recovering the full range of his voice. "I demand that you let me go this instant, or by God, it'll go hard on you!"

"That'll be impossible, Sire, I'm afraid," the man said smoothly. "You see, you are going to be our guest –"

"I shall not!"

" – until such time as the king decides to come round to our point of view."

So this was an attempt at blackmail, then. John realised that his position was a difficult one. "He will never submit to the demands of highwaymen and scoundrels such as you!"

"Oh, I believe he will. For your sake, I sincerely hope he will. For, you see, Sire, if he does not, he will leave Albion without an heir to the throne."

John held his abductor's gaze for a moment longer, then he looked away. If they were as good as their word, and taking a life would not deter them in their efforts to gain their end, then his outlook would be bleak indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

John shifted upon his bench, gathering his clothes more tightly about him and seeking a more comfortable position upon the cold stone. A few yards away, one of his two nameless captors, whom John had taken to calling 'Billy' in his mind due to the man's slight resemblance to a goat, looked up immediately as if checking what the captive was up to now.

Not that there was much John could possibly be up to. The steel ring about his ankle was fastened with a sturdy lock, and the chain attached to it was, in turn, attached to the stone bench in such a way as to make it impossible for him to get free without the key. He assumed that one of his two captors had it, or maybe it even was in some other part of the tunnel system that ended in the cave where he was being held. In any case, the key was out of reach, meaning that he would not be able to escape even if his captors ceased their constant vigilance.

It was eternally dark in here, and unrelentingly cold. At first, John had thought that he had no way of telling how much time had passed, but then he had noticed that the water level in the small nearby pool changed, reaching a high level every twelve hours or so. Tides. That and the smell of salty seawater had led him to deduce that it was connected to the ocean.

It was the only bit of hope he had. The sea meant Sherlock, if only he could somehow manage to let the merman know where he was.

Carefully, he shifted again, prompting the usual searching glance from Billy. The prince smiled apologetically. "It's a little uncomfortable upon this stone furniture, you know."

Billy snorted. "Very sorry, Your Majesty, to be unable to provide you with any down cushions. Your royal arse will just have to get used to it."

"There's really no need for profanity," John drawled. "Nor do you have to watch me quite so closely. There's nothing I can do to you."

"Very likely not. But orders are orders."

"Whose orders? Is it Minister Farnham? I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn that it is him who is behind all this. He's been trying to broadside the King's policies almost since the moment he assumed his position."

Billy shook his head. "You'll get nothing out of me, Sire. But it grieves me to say that your time is running out. The King is proving more obstinate than is good for you."

John shifted some more. "Really. What is today's date, then? I should think I have not been here longer than twenty-four hours, thirty at the most." While he talked, he carefully manoeuvred his hand behind his back.

Billy abruptly lost interest in the conversation at this point and turned his back on his captive to rejoin his confederate.

This was the moment John had been waiting for. Quick as a thought, he flicked his hand towards the pool of water. A number of fabric squares fluttered from his opening fingers onto the surface and presently disappeared. Nonchalantly, the prince settled back, his crossed arms concealing the place where a stripe of fabric was missing from his vest.

* * *

Voices. Sherlock held himself absolutely still, his long, black hair curling about his face amidst the slowly moving kelp that would, hopefully, serve to conceal the merman from the eyes of the landmen milling about upon the beach. He had no illusions about the danger he was in, but he had no choice. He needed information. This was the third day after John first failed to meet him. Something was most definitely wrong.

The conversation from above was not encouraging either. Sherlock could only catch the odd word or phrase here and there as he did not dare raise his head above the water to hear them more clearly, but he gathered that the servants had no idea of their prince's whereabouts. They had found the little boat, determined that the prince had not used it, and speculated that something must have happened to him on the way here.

Which was the conclusion Sherlock had drawn yesterday.

He gritted his teeth, going through his limited options for what felt like the thousandth time. If he left the ocean, his life was most assuredly over one way or another. He would either die of suffocation, or the landmen would find him and kill him. But what would he be able to do from here if John had run afoul some mishap on land? How was he to use his powers and find him if he could not even join him in his element?

Above him, the tangle of confused voices was fading, and soon, Sherlock was alone once more. Cautiously, he raised his head, blinked and blinked until he could see, and there the small group of landmen was walking away from the coast; soon they passed over a hill and were gone. They would not be coming back again save to recover the boat once all hope was truly lost. There was nothing more to be done or learned here.

Despondently, Sherlock sank back down and began to swim aimlessly along the coast. Even though reason was telling him to let go, to forget John and this episode of foolish entanglement with a landman, to go back to concentrate upon his duties, he could feel it in every fibre of his being that it was too soon to give up, and that his help was required.

But what, oh what could he do?

A school of wild dolphins passed him and clicked their calls for him to join their game. "Fun," they clicked, "speed jump catch."

"No day-this," Sherlock clicked back. At any other time, the merman would have loved to join them. They were so refreshingly uncomplicated, just like the rules of their games. But today, he simply did not feel like frolicking about in the waves.

"Fun," they insisted in their clicking concept language. "No-gloom, no-sadness. Catch!" Swimming back and forth, they added body language to their clicks, and Sherlock, more for want of anything else to do than out of any real desire, swam along, half-heartedly playing their favourite game of tag.

"Query landman sight-you," he clicked at them during a pause when they all floated near the surface to rest. "Landman sky-colour-eyes earth-colour-hair no swim-shell."

They laughed their high-voiced dolphin laughs. "Landman no swim-shell no-sight-we exception landman-togetherness-you."

Sherlock scowled. "Yes, well, thank you anyway," he grumbled under his breath. This was pointless. A dolphin's attention span was notoriously short in any case, and their memory was not trustworthy. He finally waved good-bye and swam deeper to the seabed to think things over for the thousandth time.

Looking around, he noticed that he had happened close to an unfamiliar part of the coast. An unusual smell of fresh water was prevalent, bringing with it the aromas of land plants and black earth. There must be the mouth of a brook or small river nearby. Interesting, but ultimately useless information, unless that brook happened to pass by John's location…

Wait.

Something floated past Sherlock, driven by the slight current that was carrying those fresh-water scents, something familiar. He reached out a hand and caught it.

Fabric. A piece of torn fabric with golden threads woven into it.

Hugging it to his breast with one hand, Sherlock flapped his tail and sped off, against that earthy current and towards the coast. Several more pieces of cloth floated towards him as the sea grew steadily shallower. He caught them all without slowing down, and then the land loomed before him like a dark giant whale. The current was growing stronger, and Sherlock continued to swim against it until he reached a hole in the rocky wall that was oozing the earthy water.

The water came from inside the land. It was not quite sweet, but brackish, which was lucky, for true sweet water would be almost as unhealthy for the merman as being out of the water entirely. There was still some risk, of course, but Sherlock did not hesitate.

He made a detour to his abode to bring a glowlamp and gird himself with his weapons belt just in case. And then he swam into the land.

The tunnel quickly narrowed until he could barely squeeze himself through the rocky protrusions in some places. At the same time, the current grew fiercer and the water sweeter and colder, until it was as cold as it only became in the abyss. The phosphorescent light from his glowlamp illuminated a few yards in front and behind, shining upon dark rock and white, slimy growth fluttering in the swift current. Now and then, a blind worm wriggled in the subterranean flora where the sun never warmed the water. Beyond the greenish halo of his lamp, there was nothing but inky blackness in front and behind.

Sherlock ignored the discomfort caused by the hard, jagged rock abrading his skin and by the salt-less water slowly swelling his tissues. The pieces of fabric he had found meant that John was in here somewhere, alive, for otherwise he would not have been able to tear the square pieces so precisely, and it had only happened recently, for otherwise they would have been slimy with the growth of these tunnels. Instead, they must have been carried out to the sea quickly, probably within an hour or two, and a determined merman, even swimming against this current, would be able to reach the place they had come from within that same time. For the sake of his landman, Sherlock would be able to withstand a little hardship for a few hours, surely.

He carefully noted all the twists and turns of the tunnel, observing that it had no other inlet or outlet, instead seeming to be a single vein of water that traversed the land. Yet somehow, pieces of John's vest had ended up in it. There must be some connection to the place where the young landman now was.

Several long twists and turns later, Sherlock's sensitive eyes caught a faint glimmer of light ahead. That, surely, was where his destination lay. Stealth was of the essence, and his light might give him away. Carefully, he deposited his glowlamp in a naturally formed alcove where it would not be swept away by the current, and approached, pulling himself forward by his arms rather than swim.

Above him, the water vein widened, and there was the typical shimmering that indicated air. This was where the light came from. Heart hammering, Sherlock pulled himself towards it.

* * *

Prince John of Albion sat upon the cold stone bench, legs drawn up and arms hugging his knees to his chest, staring at the dark pool of water as if it held the answers to all the questions of the universe. The pieces of his vest that he had thrown into it had all gone under and disappeared as far as he could see. Now, all he could do was wait.

Meanwhile, his captors had made one serious mistake. Assuming that their hostage had no means of communicating with the outside world, they had let slip where this place was. Even though he had never been here personally, John knew this cave, and how to reach it. But as long as he was chained up here with the key out of reach, even that knowledge was useless to him.

The two men who guarded him were sitting at their table, beyond the length of his chain, scrupulously keeping their distance as if they were afraid he would overpower them if they ventured near him. Whenever they decided to feed him, they told him to stay upon his bench and not move until they had deposited a brass bowl and a small cup with water upon the floor and withdrawn again. He was obliged to eat with his fingers or to drink straight from the bowl, as no cutlery was provided, and they watched him all the time until he was finished and had returned bowl and cup to them in the same elaborate fashion.

The fact that they were so obviously afraid of him was almost amusing.

His thoughts were interrupted by the very event he had anticipated. The dark water was disturbed by something even darker, and then a familiar and very welcome head silently broke the surface.

"I say," John said immediately and loudly, "would one of you two fine gentlemen deign to tell me the time and date? I've been shackled to this bench for days now, surely. I'd also be very pleased to know how long I have left to live. Purely out of curiosity, you understand."

One of the men, "Billy", looked up briefly. "The king has three more days to make up his mind as to which is more important to him, his policy or his son's life."

"Three more days, you say," John repeated, trying to hold the rascal's gaze and prevent him from accidentally spotting the merman in the pool. "In that case, I really need a change of linen. I've been in these same clothes for days. It's not healthy. My manservant, Hudson, has standing orders to patrol the moat. You could find him and let him know, and he'd be pleased to have something brought down for me –"

"Shut up, Your Excellency," Billy said in a bored tone of voice, looking back at his compatriot and the cards upon the table between them.

"Certainly, if you'd like. Though I don't see why I should. I doubt if anyone can hear us beyond these tunnels. Even the Old Woman, which is where this cave reaches the surface, is too far removed from anywhere for us to be overheard."

"Shut. Up."

Hiding his grin, John did, hoping Sherlock now had enough information to act.

* * *

Hovering beneath the dark pool's surface, Sherlock regarded the whalebone knife in his hand. The fingers holding it were unmistakably swollen. His lungs, gills and eyes hurt with a dull throbbing. The sweet water was affecting him; he did not have much time left.

Amidst his pain, he was feeling giddy both with the triumph at having found John and with immense pride in him and the way the landman had briefed him on his situation. He knew all he needed to know; John was shackled, there were two guards, and the tunnel system ended at something called "old woman", which probably was a landmark of some sort. If Sherlock so desired, he could even contact John's servant at the moat to get help.

But while he embarked on this theoretical mission, which would involve gaining another landman's trust while avoiding being killed on sight, the young prince would remain in danger from his captors and any rash action they might take. Sherlock decided not to risk any of that, and to instead find out how good his aim was in the air.

* * *

Fenton was just about to play his best card. At this moment, all was right in his world. Their captive was secure, he had just eaten, he was not cold due to the woollen underthings loaned from his brother-in-law, and he was about to win this game.

There was a splashing sound. Fenton, in the act of putting down the ace of hearts with a flourish worthy of the triumph of the situation, did not look up immediately. And so, a blow to his chest was his only indication that anything was wrong. His eyes went down to see an elaborately carved, white handle was protruding from his left breast. His heart, neatly speared by the bone-white blade, gave out immediately, and he slumped forward, quite dead.

Carlton, opposite, had witnessed his compatriot's startling demise with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. He sprang up, sending his chair flying, and grabbed the pistol that had been lying upon the table next to him. Whirling around, he saw the captive, still sitting upon his bench as he had for the past hour, looking as startled as Carlton felt.

"Don't move!" Carlton yelled, wildly aiming his pistol at the prince. "You – you – don't move!"

The prince slowly put up his hands. "For goodness' sake, don't shoot, man. I'm unarmed. You know that."

"Tell that to Fenton!" Carlton cried. "Get up. Leave your hands where I can see them. Move away from the bench."

The captive complied. Carlton, anxious to pre-empt any more attacks by the surprisingly combative prince, kept all his attention upon him, which proved to be a mistake.

He stepped too close to the dark pool. There was another splash, much louder than the first, then something heavy collided with him from behind and threw him forward, which brought his head into violent contact with the stone ground and robbed him of consciousness. He did not notice his finger closing about the trigger, loosing a shot that, fortunately, went wide.

* * *

John sprang towards the wet, glistening tangle of guard and merman that was writhing upon the ground in front of him, ducking his head at the report of the shot that was followed by the whizzing sound of the ricochet. "Are you all right?" he called, grabbing the gun that had fallen from "Billy's" limp hand and finding the guard safely unconscious.

Sherlock raised his head. "Quite all right," he said gurgling, coughed, spat out a stream of water, and repeated, "all right. You?"

"I'm fine." John stared at the merman and took in the girdle and weapons sash that encircled Sherlock's slender body, giving him an unusually warlike appearance. "You… thank you. I'm certainly glad to see you."

Sherlock raised himself up on his arms and coughed again. "I'm glad to have found you. Can you get free?"

"Not without the key." By way of demonstration, John jingled the chain that was attached to his ankle. "Let's search them."

"What was that abysmal bang?" Sherlock asked as he turned over the guard he had tackled. "My ears are still ringing."

"This." John held up the pistol. "Don't tell me you've never –" He stopped himself. Of course Sherlock had never seen a gun nor heard a gun shot. There was no fire under the sea, no explosions, no forging or smelting, no way, even, to make refined chemicals like saltpetre or sulphur. All of that required air as a working environment. "It's a gun," he explained smoothly, "or, more precisely, a pistol. It works by igniting a mixture of chemicals, and the resulting explosion propels a lead bullet at very high speeds towards the target. You can kill a man with one well-aimed shot at close quarters."

"Quite devastating," Sherlock commented. "They must be the 'bang-sticks' that are mentioned in our history. Very descriptive, if unimaginative." He raised a hand to his left ear and tapped it. "What a noise!" Looking at John, he added, "There is nothing in this man's clothes that might serve as a key of any kind."

John, meanwhile, had walked the full extension of his chain towards his other captor, who was still sitting slumped at the table, but he was unable to reach him. "He's dead," he stated, stunned. "You killed him."

"It was not my intention," Sherlock admitted, dragging himself along the stone floor to join John. "I was improvising, and I woefully underestimated the force needed to throw my knife through the air. Also, it did not move the way I expected. Long-range combat is unknown to us, you know."

"I understand." With an effort, John fought down his shock. "Well, it's done." He looked down at the merman who was now next to him, looking as awkward as any fish out of the water, his long tail useless and his arms not used to holding him up for long. "Can you reach him? We need to know if he has the key."

"I shall try." He dragged himself forward, slowly covering the few yards between him and the dead guard. John was amused to notice the instinctive flapping motion of the merman's tail fin. Then Sherlock curled his tail under himself and raised his upper body off the floor, moving curiously snakelike as his hands patted and searched. "Nothing," he finally reported. "Now what? Should I try to see what's beyond that bend?"

John rattled the chain in frustration. "No. I have no idea where the key might be. Maybe somebody else has it. I don't even know how long these tunnels are until they reach the surface. Come back into the water," he added. The sight of the beached merman was unsettling to him.

Sherlock complied readily, which told John that the air had indeed begun to affect him, and soon slithered head first into the dark pool, reappearing presently. "Your servant, this Hudson," he said thoughtfully. "Is he given to rash deeds, such as attacking a creature of legend that desires to tell him the whereabouts of the heir to the throne?"

"I shouldn't think so. He's a level-headed, calm fellow. But how will you get to him? It's several miles to the Palace from the Old Woman, not counting the way through the tunnels."

"Well," Sherlock said, "I suppose I shall find out if there is a connection between this waterway and the moat. If there is not, I shall simply come back. If there is, I shall try to convince Hudson to send help here. Meanwhile, you can keep my knife in case there are more conspirators." He held out the white weapon.

John took it, noting the intricately carved handle and that the blade, too, was white and seemingly made of sharpened bone. No metal smelting under the sea, he reminded himself.

Bending down, he reached out to take Sherlock's face between his hands and then kissed his lips. "For luck," he explained, blushing.

The merman touched his own lips with an expression of wonder. "Thank you," he said after a pause. Then his head disappeared, and he was gone.

John returned to his bench, dragging the chain behind him, and trying to tell himself that Sherlock's swollen fingers and puffy eyes were no cause for concern. It did not work.


	7. Chapter 7

Time was passing. Sherlock felt it in every cell of his body as he swam against the current, darkness all around him, sensitive nose sifting the too-thin water for scents that might tell him something, anything. He estimated that he had been in this sweet water for three hours now. The pain in his head and in every limb was increasing, informing him that his time was growing short. He would need three hours back to the ocean if he turned around now, but that might already be longer than he had left.

Besides, it was something he could and would not do. John needed his help. Sherlock could only swim back towards the sea when he had successfully imparted his message to a landman.

The tunnel he was following wound its way steadily through the land. The glow from his lamp showed rock and the curiously limp sweet water flora that grew in this perpetual darkness. Fortunately, the waterway had been wide enough so far for the merman to squeeze himself through without too much difficulty, and there were even natural alcoves here and there that would allow him to turn around. He closed his mind to the thought, ignoring the increasing urge to swim back towards the sea that was his element. Hard as it was to override his instinct of self-preservation, there was something else that drove him deeper into the land, something to do with the landman who had become so important to him.

Another dark hole spilled more sweet water at him. It smelled differently than the water he had swam in so far. It smelled polluted. In the green glow of his lamp, there were bits of things visible one did not normally find in water, not even in sweet water.

Sherlock felt an intense sense of relief when he saw something that could only be a piece of peel that clearly had been cut off a root of some sort with the aid of a sharp knife. More such pieces were clinging to the colourless plants that lined the tunnel. Kitchen refuse! This waterway must be connected to a landman's dwelling, possibly even to the Palace. Without hesitation, he swam into that new tunnel. By now, it was becoming difficult to bend his fingers, and he ignored the nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him that it was already too late. More than four hours now until he would be back in the sea if he turned around now – but it was academic, for judging from the way he felt now, he could not survive for another four hours.

There was only one way for him to go, and so he swam on.

It took another half hour before he finally reached the end of the new tunnel, which widened suddenly into a large, longish, shallow lake. This must be the moat. Sherlock halted near the outflow, hovering just above the slimy, black earth, finding he could hardly see his own hand in front of his eyes even though the surface could not be more than five feet or so above him. The water, too, was so dark as to be nearly black, and it tasted of decay as he breathed it, which made him think amusedly that it might almost be healthier for him to breathe air than that.

Listening, he fancied he could hear voices, too many voices. But what could he do? He had not come here to stay in hiding. Besides, it was too late anyway. Now he would impart his message, and then he could only hope that they would kill him before this abysmal water did.

There was no time left. He drifted up, gathered his courage, and surfaced.

It took noticeably longer this time for his eyes to adjust to air vision, but when his sight finally cleared, he found himself surrounded by low walls. At least three landmen were within view above them, walking slowly to and fro. Guards, to all appearances. Carefully, Sherlock turned, trying to spot Hudson. He had seen him before in John's boat, back when he was still merely observing and listening, so he felt confident that he would be able to recognise him. To the other side, the Palace walls barred further view while in front of him lay a succession of small buildings, possibly outhouses and sheds for the servants.

What he did not see was Hudson.

What now? He had no time to think. He had to get out of this water. He could not wait for Hudson to appear. He would impart his message, and depart. Impart, and depart.

Leviathan, the water must be beginning to affect his mind.

"Hello!" he called over the hammering of his heart, surprised at the searing pain in his chest as he inhaled the air to shout.

Heads turned as the guards looked about, trying to spot the caller. For about half a minute, Sherlock remained unnoticed; half a minute in which he might still have saved himself.

Then one saw him and pointed. Next thing he knew, they all came running towards him. It took almost superhuman effort to ignore his instinct to dive and hide. The landmen shouted in voices that sounded upset, and then one of them threw something at him.

A rope.

Over the pain and his near panic, Sherlock almost laughed. They thought he had fallen into the moat.

"I have a message for your king," he called up, his tongue feeling swollen and unwieldy in his mouth. "It is about Prince John."

That stopped all activity. The guards looked at one another, then back at him, with, Sherlock was resigned to notice, increased suspicion in their faces. "Who are you?" one of them called down.

"Prince John is being held in a cave near the Old Woman," Sherlock called, ignoring the question. "There are at least two captors." One of the guards ran towards the Palace, but Sherlock ignored that as well. "These two are currently out of action, but there may be more. Send some men, and someone who can open metal chains." He wanted to say more, but his voice broke in a dry croak, causing him to cough. The flare of pain was incredible.

"How do you know all this? Who are you? How did you get here?"

There were more questions shouted at him, but they somehow faded away, along with his sight, both drowned out by the hammering in his head, fast and rhythmic. The alien air was burning in his lungs; blackness was encroaching upon him from all sides. He could not breathe. Instinctively, he let himself sink back down, desperately drawing in the unhealthy water through his wide-open mouth. The pain did not cease. He thrashed as his body tried to swim away from the agony in every cell of his body, and suddenly there was a brick wall in front of him, and he barely avoided hitting his head.

Where was the entrance to the tunnel? He could not see. The scent of blood – his own blood – was sharp in his nose. He swam deeper and immediately reached the black slimy mud that covered the ground. Trying not to give in to the panic that was hovering immediately beneath the surface of his mind, Sherlock felt his way along the ground to the next wall. The tunnel had to be somewhere. Blood was streaming in long red ribbons from his nose; his head felt like it was about to burst.

Suddenly, something fell onto his back. He swam deeper, trying to evade it, but it was all around and soon below him. A net! They had thrown a net over him, and closed it! His hand blindly felt for his knife - he remembered that he had given it to John – his other knife, then. The net was pulling him towards the surface as his swollen fingers tore the knife free from his weapons belt; there was air around him as they pulled him clear of the water and he cut open the first mesh; shouts of astonishment as the second mesh gave way, hard land ground beneath him, and then something hard connected to his skull, once, twice.

Blackness.

* * *

John perked up as he heard voices in the distance. Several people were calling his name.

"I'm here," he called back, giving the chain about his ankle an annoyed shake and hoping that whoever was coming was bringing along a blacksmith.

Men carrying torches appeared around the bend, and John was relieved to see them wearing the coat of arms identifying them as royal guards. Two of them came right towards him while the others secured the still slumbering villain, muttering about the dead guard.

"Very glad to see you alive and well, Sire," one of the guards said. "We were not at all certain whether that fishman was telling the truth, or whether you had fallen prey to his ilk."

"Fishman! He's a merman, and I hope for all your sakes that he was treated well!"

The guard looked contrite. "I couldn't say, Sire," he said quickly. "I don't know where he is now."

John seized the man's coat and pulled his face to close to his own. "Heaven help you if he has been harmed in any way."

The man looked away, and John felt red-hot fury grip him. "Get that chain off me, man, and bring me a horse."

* * *

"So this is the fishman that was fished out of the moat, is it?"

Sherlock tried to open his eyes. They seemed to be weighted down.

"Yes, your Majesty. This is the belt that he was wearing. Primitive, to be sure, Sire, but that makes him no less dangerous. Look how finely crafted the blades are, for all their lack of sophisticated materials."

"Yes, yes. How did he come be in the moat?"

"We still haven't found that out yet. We have a diver down, but the water is very cloudy, and the moat is large."

"There must be an entrance somewhere. Have it found and closed. We cannot be having these fishmen spying on us."

Movement was impossible. Sherlock could feel himself gasping, but otherwise, he could not move a finger. The heat of the sun was stinging all along his body like jellyfish nettle.

"We have no word about the prince yet, Sire. Do you suppose the fishmen abducted him?"

"I should not be surprised, Buchanan, but let's not jump to conclusions. Dear me, he looks quite ghastly. Can he hear us?"

"We're not sure, Sire. It was a heavy blow; I suspect he's still unconscious. He's certainly in a bad way. Dr. Farrows said he's losing ground fast, and there's nothing he can do."

Sherlock closed his mouth and tried to gather enough moisture upon his tongue to speak. "John…" he forced out.

"Not quite unconscious, I should think. What was it he said?"

"It sounded like the name of your son, Sire."

Something touched Sherlock's shoulder. It felt as if the skin was being ripped clean off, and he could not hold back a groan.

"Can you hear me?"

With a supreme effort of will, the merman forced his eyes to open, gritty lids scraping over inflamed sclera. Not surprisingly, his sight was blurry and remained so; this must be dry-blindness, as the historians called it. Strange that he should remember that now. Still, he did his best to focus upon the face that seemed to be hovering in front of him. "Yes."

"Who are you? What have you to do with Prince John?"

Sherlock tried to smile. His lip split open, but he barely felt it. "My name is… Sherlock. I am… Dauphin Infante to Emperor Sherrinford." This caused something of a stir among his audience of two, but he went on relentlessly, as long as he still had the strength to speak. "John is… unharmed. Landmen abducted him. Not our doing." Despite his earlier wish to have it over with quickly, he now found that he did not want to die after all. "Please. Put me back in the water. I… cannot breathe." Abruptly abandoning his effort at speech, he gave in to his body's demand and went back to gasping.

"Is this true?" the landman whom Sherlock took to be John's father demanded. "You are the second son of the emperor of the merfolk?"

Sherlock nodded. "The water," he gasped. "Please."

There was a pause. Then the man whose name was Buchanan spoke. "It may cause a war if this man dies, Sire."

"Only if the fishmen learn about it, and I do not see how they should."

"The emperor knows where I am," Sherlock interjected, his tongue like a dead thing in his mouth. "I'm here as… emissary. Peaceful emissary. If I do not return… act of war."

"None of us want another war," the king said. "Very well. Put him back into the moat, Buchanan."

"But Sire –"

"And tie his hands together and secure them to this ring where we can see them. I am sorry to have to do this, sir, but I cannot allow you to escape until my son has returned safely. After all, I only have your word for it that your people are not involved, and history tells us how little we may trust the word of a merman."

* * *

John galloped along the stony path as fast as his horse would go. He was cold with apprehension at what he would find upon his arrival at the Palace. The things Sherlock had told him about that past war were in the forefront of his mind, the betrayals, acts of revenge, and finally, the complete breakdown of diplomatic relations leading to mutual slaughter that had lasted almost two decades.

Sherlock had known about the danger he would be in, and he had gone anyway. To save John.

If they have killed him, John thought, I don't know what I'll do.

Finally, the Palace loomed in front of him, and there was the drawbridge leading over the moat. John reined in his horse and jumped off its back before the gelding had fully stopped.

The King's First Councillor was pacing back and forth along the bridge; two guards were hovering next to him, taking turns peering down into the blackish water. John ran towards them, giving no thought to maintaining his princely dignity.

"Where is he, Buchanan?"

"Where is who, Sire?" the Councillor asked uncomfortably. "The King is holding audience, as he always does at this time of –"

"Not the king, Buchanan. The merman. Is he down there?" Without waiting for a response, he half ran towards the wall surrounding the moat.

What he saw turned him sick and icy with fear and fury. "You!" he shouted at a guard. "Untie him at once, and then help me get him out of this water!"

Buchanan joined him at the wall. "Sire, the bindings are there by order of the King. Besides, the fishman specifically insisted on being put back into the water."

"Of course he would, Buchanan! It's better than being out of the water, but that is sweet water! He's a creature of the sea! And I order you to untie him now, guard! Anyone can see that he's too ill to even move."

Something of his near murderous rage must have communicated to the guard, who immediately set himself to the task without offering any more protest.

Salt water, John thought frantically, Sherlock needed to be in salt water. Bringing him to the ocean would take too long. What to do?

"Buchanan, have a tub brought down, and as much salt as the kitchens hold. Don't just stand there, man. Go!" Again, John did not give the Councillor a chance to reply. Taking only the time needed to throw off his cloak and kick off his boots, he jumped into the cloudy moat water, where the guard had just succeeding in untying the ropes that secured the merman's hands to an old iron ring in the wall.

Sherlock was floating near the surface, his long body looking dead white as it hovered, stretched out and as still as the black water that barely covered him. He did not react when John touched him. The merman's eyes, when John carefully turned his head towards him, were half open and unseeing. If it weren't for the rapid opening and closing of his mouth as he breathed the water, the prince would have thought him dead. Gently, John enfolded him in his arms, stroking his face, trying to rouse him, glad of the fact that the walls were shielding them from view.

It seemed impossible to touch him without hurting him, and John could only hope that he did not feel it. The formerly smooth skin of the merman was abraded and bleeding freely in several places where it seemed as if it had simply burst open; there was nothing left of the beautiful metallic sheen of the sleek tail whose scales all jutted away from the swollen skin beneath.

Calling the merman's name again and again, John smoothed away the few strands of tangled black hair that had escaped from the practical braid it had been tied into. He felt the strong urge to hold Sherlock's head above the water as if he were a drowning man, but John resisted it. Instead, he held his breath and submerged his own head to be able to touch his lips to Sherlock's forehead in a futile if heartfelt effort to keep him alive through sheer effort of will.

There were voices above. Without taking his eyes or arms off his stricken friend, John shouted orders, oaths and more orders, and finally, a large, round, sheet-metal washing tub, hanging from two stout ropes, was lowered next to him into the moat. Filling it with the black water, John alternately pulled and pushed the unconscious merman into it, and then, with the aid of an ox, the tub was pulled out of the moat, water, merman and all.

John climbed out along with it, finally standing dripping and covered with black mud next to it, not caring about this ruin of his clothes. Dr. Farrows, the royal physician, had somehow turned up as well, and the prince looked at him with wild hope. This lasted only a second, however, for Farrows merely shook his head, mumbling something about having no experience with fishmen.

"Then why are you here?" John demanded, a renewed wave of rage flaring up hot in his gut. "If you're just curious…"

Unruffled, Dr. Farrows pointed to a small canvas sack that was standing next to the wall of the drawbridge. "I heard about the situation, and I came to offer my advice, Sire. Too much salt would be as fatal as too little of it obviously is. Sea water contains a certain amount of salt that varies only little in the seven seas as far as we know. The precise concentration –"

"…does not interest me, Doctor. Just put enough of it into the water, and then let's all pray that it will help."

It almost took longer than John's nerves would stand. The prince remained next to the tub, continually sloshing his hands through the cloudy water in an attempt to aerate it while Sherlock remained still, curled up around himself within the tub like an eel. But at last, his gasping visibly slowed; the ruffled scales covering the tail smoothed down again; his distended features became recognisable once more, and at long last, his eyes opened fully, he looked up at John, and smiled.

"Thank God," John breathed, slumping. "Now, bring a large cart and two strong horses. We're going to bring him back to the ocean."

* * *

The journey took almost three hours. John was anxious to keep the precious salt water from spilling from the tub as the large cart slowly rumbled over the uneven path that was barely wide enough to accommodate it. Sherlock remained submerged for the most part, but occasionally, he raised his head out of the water to gaze curiously at the landscape that was moving past all around him.

John rode along upon the cart, next to the tub; his one hand kept sloshing through the water even though Sherlock assured him that it wasn't necessary. Whenever the merman surfaced, John pointed out the various rocky slopes and flat fields within view, giving their names and telling stories of how they had come by them, glad to turn his mind away from the crisis they had just overcome, and from the lingering fear that his merman might have sustained some permanent damage.

King James had remained conspicuous by his absence; but to John's surprise, Councillor Buchanan readily accompanied the trek, riding his horse immediately behind the cart. It almost seemed to John that Buchanan was feeling badly about the part he had played in the drama and was willing to make amends.

This was borne out when they had reached the shore and Sherlock was, finally, back in his native element, ready to swim home.

Buchanan stepped closer to the beach. "Wait, please. There is something I should like to say before you leave."

"Can't this wait?" John hissed at him. "He really shouldn't strain himself anymore by breathing our air listening to you."

"Quite all right, John," Sherlock said evenly, "I am almost completely recovered. What is it you wish to say, Councillor?"

Buchanan drew himself erect. "I wish to extend Albion's official apology for the treatment you have suffered at our hands, Sire, and to say how glad I am that it has not come to the worst. King James full well knows that he was in the wrong in this, and he wishes to convey to Emperor Sherrinford that, should he so desire, Albion is open to renew the relations that were so brutally severed all those centuries ago."

Sherlock inclined his head. "I shall convey your message, Councillor. But I very much fear that my people are even more burdened by prejudice than yours are. In fact, it shall be many a year before Sherrinford will be able to even let me finish speaking, should I ever dare mention the word 'landfolk' in his hearing."

The councillor looked confused. "I don't understand. You mentioned you are an emissary."

"A white lie, Councillor, I am afraid."

"But, forgive me, you are the Dauphin Infante, are you not?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a sidelong glance at John, who was gaping at him. "That much was true. Well, we can all of us only hope that things will change while we are still there to see it, Councillor. And now, I really must leave, before my father does call in the warriors. Good day to you all. And thank you."

With a last, lingering glance at John, the merman disappeared beneath the waves.


	8. Chapter 8

"So," King James said severely, "you have been consorting with fishmen."

John sighed wearily. The king's pleasure at having his son and heir back safe and sound had been surprisingly short-lived, and already John was back to being continually inadequate. "No, Sire. With mermen. More precisely, with a merman."

His father's broad face hardly moved, but one corner of his mouth rose beneath his moustache in a royal sneer. "I do not care by what name you call them. You have been to the sea, every day, to meet with one of them instead of taking care of your duties at court. I assumed you were studying, preparing for the throne, writing to a prospective bride, or at least practicing the knightly arts. Instead, I find that you spend your time with a fishman. Why, for heaven's sake?"

"I have been forging diplomatic relations," John said icily, his indignation giving him the incentive to twist the truth. Besides, it was only a very slight twisting, wasn't it? "Sherlock is the Emperor's second son. We were on equal terms all along." Yes, that was still a source of amusement and amazement for him. He wondered why Sherlock had never mentioned that bit, but, with it in mind, the merman's occasional odd remark now made sense.

"Diplomatic relations, indeed. Half the court saw you next to him, and how you snarled at Buchanan when he was reluctant to allow your orders to supersede mine. Do you take me for a fool? There are already jokes about you and that creature, and they are repeated often enough to have reached even my ears. The prince and the fishman. You have made me a laughing stock."

"I do not care," John said, aware that he was sounding like a petulant child and growing even angrier because of it. "He understands me better than anything with legs does, and that includes this court and everyone in it. He found me when I was in danger and everyone here was either doing nothing effective or fiddling their thumbs for want of ideas."

"I'll not have you belittling the efforts of my investigators, John!"

"I'm not belittling them! If I were, they'd be too small to see! The point is, you are disapproving and jeering my friend who was there for me when no one else was. Well, I'm not having it. He's not a 'fishman', Sire. He's an honourable, highly intelligent being whose conversation is a hundredfold more stimulating than anything I have ever experienced at this royal court." He fairly spat the last two words. "If I had to choose, I should prefer his company over anyone else's."

The king had risen from his throne. His face had darkened. "So Buchanan and five guards observed when you were quite unable to keep your hands off him."

"I thought he was dying, and I was merely offering my assistance! You treated him like a common prisoner, a criminal even, and all he wanted was to help!"

"Very well, John. I can see that I shall be unable to accomplish anything by appealing to your reason. Therefore, you are henceforth categorically forbidden to go near the coast, and do not think I will not enforce this edict. In any case, it's time to stop that foolish nonsense. Tomorrow, a delegation of the court of Iwerthon will visit in order to present Marie, the princess. It's high time. I expect you to formally ask for her hand in marriage."

John, who had stood as well, fell back onto his chair, thunderstruck. To be forced into marriage so suddenly had an effect akin to tearing a veil from his eyes, and suddenly, he saw what his heart had known all along. The realisation was, quite literally, staggering. "I – I cannot," he forced out. "I cannot marry her."

"Whyever not?"

"I love another. I'm sorry, father. It's impossible."

The king's moustache quivered. "May I ask who it is that you love, John?" His tone implied that he had a suspicion that he would very much like to hear was unfounded.

John, however, was not about to do him the favour. He rose to his feet once more. "I love the only being who has ever shown understanding for me, and who loves me for who I am rather than what I am. I love Sherlock, and I will not marry another, neither princess nor commoner."

There was a pause during which John feared that his father would actually strike him. Then the king gathered himself with a visible effort. "This episode has clearly addled your brains, John. Go to your rooms and stay there until you've come to your senses."

"I have never been clearer, and nothing you do or say will change how I feel."

"I said go to your rooms!" King James was now very close to losing his temper. "Go, or I shall summon the guards and have you taken there!"

John could see that there was no reasoning with his father, so he raised his hands in a soothing gesture. "I'm going, Sire."

"And do not cross my sight unless it is to tell me that you will marry the princess," James called to his retreating back.

John turned back briefly. "Then I shall never see you again, Sire. I will not marry Marie, nor anyone you care to name. There is only one for me, even though he will never be able to stand before you."

* * *

A few miles out to sea and several hundred yards beneath the waves, Sherlock was faring similarly badly.

"You confess, then, that you have not only approached the land, but you have allowed yourself to be seen by landfolk, and in all probability even talked to them, repeatedly. As a result, you nearly lost your life."

Sherlock's face remained expressionless as he returned Emperor Sherrinford's incensed look. "What exactly is your accusation, father?"

"The breaking of an edict, which is punishable by banishment, as you very well know. Do not mince words with me. Your life is of course your own, and you have always chosen to do with it as you please, a situation with which I have grown quite familiar. But now, you have taken to flaunting our laws, and that I cannot allow to go unpunished. Do you confess?"

"I confess disregarding an edict that was made centuries ago, and in doing so I endangered nobody but myself. In fact, I –"

"And there you are wrong, Sherlock. The landfolk had forgotten about us, considered us merely legendary. Thanks to your ill-advised actions, they now know we exist. It is only a question of time before they will start hunting us down."

"Forgive me, but that is pure paranoia. There is no evidence that the landfolk will do that, nor, in fact, that they ever have done anything of the kind. Our histories -"

"There is no evidence that they won't, either!" Sherrinford drifted out of his throne and began to swim back and forth in his agitation. "In any case, the law must be upheld. The charge is clear. You have confessed. No court proceeding is necessary. In accordance with the ancient edict, I declare you now banished."

Sherlock stared at him. Banished! Being forced to leave behind his family, his friends, his work, everything that held meaning for him. "Father, this is hardly fair. If you would hear me out, I could explain to you that I have succeeded in opening diplomatic relations with Albion. Surely that is worth more than the upholding of any outdated law. Besides, you cannot argue with fate."

The emperor forced himself to stillness by resting one hand upon the headrest of his throne. "I have no choice in this, Sherlock. The law is quite clear, as you were very well aware when you embarked upon this foolhardiness. Any lenience towards you would be construed as nepotism on my part. But since you are my son, I grant you two cycles to bring your affairs in order before you have to leave."

Sherlock repeatedly sifted the water through his lungs and gills in an effort to calm himself. When he was sure of his voice, he said dryly, "How magnanimous. You are aware of the signal you are sending with this, are you not? Inability to adapt to change is an unfortunate trait in a ruler."

Sherrinford's face darkened. "Enough. Insulting me will not help your cause. Leave now before I change my mind and set the guards upon you immediately rather than in two cycles."

Beneath his calm exterior, the hot temper he had inherited from his grandmother flared in Sherlock's stomach. "Turning me into a martyr will not help your cause, father. I will leave as soon as I have talked to my brother, your heir, the one who will be upholding these stupid laws when you are gone. Or maybe he won't, and then, in the long run, you will have lost all that I can offer this realm, and for nothing."

The emperor's face did not change, and Sherlock knew that all was lost. With a heavy heart – for what was a merman alone, away from his people? – he turned and left the emperor's abode to let the currents drift him away.

* * *

John pulled the curtains closed in front of him, hoping that Hudson would not see him. The bag the prince had slung over his shoulder was almost too big to give him enough room in this alcove, and Hudson was taking his blasted time with the fire in a room nobody was using anyway.

Only one more floor to go down, and he would be outside. Then get his horse, and nobody would catch him before he was in his boat. Sherlock would find him, and then everything would somehow turn out all right. It would.

In some corner of his mind, John knew he was behaving foolishly, but he did not care. There was no way he was staying here in the palace under these conditions. Albion would go on without him – it had for centuries, after all.

Suddenly, Hudson turned around. "Anybody there?"

Damn. He must have made some sound after all. Not wishing to be found skulking like a thief behind the curtain, John stepped out. "Hudson," he said, thinking fast, "how deeply are you attached to your position?"

"Sire?"

"Suppose I offered you another one, a position that might be less luxurious, but certainly more privileged, and infinitely more exciting than your present one."

Hudson still looked confused. "Sire?"

John took a deep breath. "I'm leaving, Hudson, and I'm offering you the opportunity to come with me. We shall go by boat, leave Albion. Find a new home somewhere."

Hudson stared at him, and John was already weighing alternatives – should he knock him out or just send him away? – when the servant surprised him. "If I may be allowed to speak freely, Sire, I have for some days considered giving notice and accepting a position that has been offered me in Cumartin. But I have always liked the sea. I daresay the outings you were kind enough to ask me to accompany you to have reminded me of that."

Changing mental gears, John smiled broadly and picked up his sack of provisions. "Splendid. No time to pack, though, Hudson, I'm leaving immediately. Drop that coal-scuttle and come along, then."

"Sneaking off in the dead of night like a common criminal, Sire?" Hudson asked, an expression of dignified horror on his face as he brushed off his hands.

"It would seem so, Hudson."

"How very exciting, Sire. I shall be right behind you."

John nodded and walked off. "Oh, one more thing, Hudson. I'm not Prince anymore as soon as I leave Palace grounds, so there's no more need for calling me 'Sire'. From now on, 'John' will, do, or 'Sir', if you must."

* * *

John, former Prince of Albion and now an ordinary if high-born person, and Hudson, former royal manservant and now merely John's servant, had just reached the coast and were preparing the little catboat for its first truly long journey when a very familiar dark head surfaced in the shallow water next to John's right foot.

"Sherlock!" John cried, dropping the rope he was holding and letting himself fall with a slosh into the knee-deep, warm water to give the surprised merman an exuberant hug. "I am so glad to see you! You look well, I'm relieved to notice. Oh, Sherlock, there's something I have to tell you."

Sherlock smiled as he returned the hug. "I, too, have interesting news, John. But first, allow me to do this." With that, he framed John's face in both hands as John had done to him a few days ago, and kissed him full on the mouth.

Hudson's eyes widened alarmingly. Blushing furiously, the servant curbed his curiosity about being close to the merman he had heard so much talk about, and he turned away and walked off, muttering something about setting the horses free and bringing the rest of the provisions.

This retreat was not noticed by either of the participants of the pleasurable tangle in the surf, which presently became even more complicated when Sherlock added the prehensile nature of his long tail to the hug, literally wrapping himself all around John without ending the kiss as the waves came and went around them.

Finally, breathless, John managed to gasp, "Sherlock, we've got company!" He disentangled one hand and used it to stop the merman's which was insinuating itself into John's shirt in quest of the russet body hair that had fascinated him so.

Sherlock, ignoring him, was kissing his way down John's neck, obviously intending for his mouth to join his hand. "He will find something to occupy him," the merman muttered disjointedly whenever his lips were not in contact with John's skin. "It is the way of servants everywhere."

John smiled. Now that they were finally together, it did appear as though everything would simply resolve itself, and his smile blossomed out into a carefree laugh. "I've run away, Sherlock," he cried, exuberant. "I'm free to go where I please. I thought to take the boat and just sail away, to another land, an island maybe – Sherlock, stop that."

The merman obviously had no intention of stopping. "I too am free to go wherever I please, provided only that I leave," he mumbled, his mouth close to John's left nipple. "It seems our paths have finally joined." His tongue flicked out briefly to tease the dark flesh. "I cannot say that I am displeased."

"Stop that," said John, suppressing an unmanly giggle and looking around to see where Hudson had got to. There was no sign of his servant. Then his attention was captured by the dark head that was still at the height of his chest and slowly inching lower, face submerged in the water that was still half covering both of them.

Said head lifted, and storm-grey eyes glinted up at him. There were little droplets of sea water upon Sherlock's face, and his long hair, moved by the surf, was tickling John's chest. "Do you truly want me to stop?" the merman asked seriously.

John smiled. "Of course not."

"I thought you might not mean it. I also think you should divest yourself of your clothes."

"Here?" John's voice sounded positively scandalised.

"Where else? Besides, your clothes are wet. They will dry better when out of the water. But if you insist, by all means, let's move a little away from here." With that, he grabbed John securely around the waist, rolled onto his back, and swam along the coast for a few hundred yards while John hung on, at first for dear life, and then with growing enthusiasm. Sherlock, still on his back, slid through the water swiftly just beneath the surface while John was pulled along with his head above it, drawing an enormous wave behind him.

"This is fun!" he cried when they finally halted in a deserted cove that looked inaccessible from the land. "Oh look, sand!" he added, exuberantly.

"I thought a sandy beach might be preferable over pebbles for what I have in mind," Sherlock said.

"You planned this!"

"I hoped it might not be entirely unwelcome, so I looked around for a suitable place. We shall be entirely undisturbed here."

It was heavenly to lie in the soft sand with the surf playing around him, and John found himself advancing no objection as Sherlock's deft fingers undid his buttons and fastenings until he was as naked as the day he had been born, and a second later he found himself once again wrapped up in his merman, the warm sinewy body pressing tight against him.

Confused thoughts about the how were drifting to the forefront of John's mind like the bits of kelp and foam that were drifting about the two of them, gone too quickly to be appreciated clearly and yet too insistent to be ignored. But even as he was trying to put them into words, he noticed something happening between their tight-pressed bodies. Where before his increasingly aroused manhood had been alone, it now felt as if it had been joined by something else.

Curious, John wormed a hand between them as Sherlock, whose head remained thrown back and covered by the water, mouth wide open and eyes closed, curled himself even more tightly about his two-legged lover, ecstasy personified. Then John's hand closed about the two of them, finding the flesh his hand encountered not very dissimilar to his own, and, moved equally by pleasure and love, he held his breath to be able to fasten his lips to those of the merman.

Their bodies found the rhythm that seemed to be all around them in the surf, and within them in the parts of their bodies that, despite their different physiologies, still remembered the time when their species had been one. Then John reached a point where he did not notice anymore the salt in his eyes nor the warmth of the sun upon his back as the pleasure reached its peak, cresting like the waves around them, and he groaned his release.

Sherlock seemed not far behind him, for suddenly, the long, powerful tail contracted about John's legs in an unmistakable spasm and the heat between them increased momentarily, before everything relaxed, and another wave rolled in, washing away the evidence of their joined passion. When John's hand made another foray between their bodies, he found nothing but smooth scales.

Sherlock's head appeared above the water, and exuberant smile upon his lips. He spat out the water in his lungs and said, in a tone of voice John had never heard from him before, "Fate, John. We cannot argue with it."

The former Prince of Albion found himself in complete agreement.


	9. Chapter 9

"The coast seems to end there," Hudson said. "After that, there is only open sea in that direction. I believe it is time to make a decision, Sire. I mean, sir."

John looked at where his servant was pointing. Indeed, the coastal line they had kept in sight all through the two days they had been at sea looked as if the land was ending. If they changed course to keep following it, they would, sooner or later, go full circle round the land mass and end up back at Albion.

There was a pause. Finally Hudson asked, in tones of supreme diffidence, "Where are we going, anyway, sir?"

An excellent question. "Away from Albion," John said. "That's the only thing that matters, except that I wish the King to be utterly unable to find me." He frowned. "Albion holds diplomatic ties to all the kingdoms in the land. If we make landfall anywhere else in Britannia, word about my whereabouts would sooner or later reach him."

"Then it does matter where we go," Hudson supplied. "We must leave Britannia. Head for the open sea, and another land beyond it."

They looked at each other, then at their little craft. Neither of them had the slightest idea if it would be capable of crossing the deep seas.

"I have heard talk of pirates, sir," Hudson said conversationally, "and of gigantic monsters that inhabit the deep sea. If you will forgive me, it does not seem very prudent to take such a course of action in our present circumstances."

"Quite apart from the fact that we do not have supplies for more than three days, nor can we carry much more," John added. He looked at the water around them. "Time to consult our specialist. Sherlock? Are you there?"

Hudson, who knew, after these two days, what was about to happen, cleared his throat and tried to interest himself in the sight of his naked feet.

And indeed, when John leaned over the side to peer into the water, the merman's slim shape suddenly erupted out from the blue depths, arching into the air like a dolphin and throwing his arms around John, who promptly lost his balance and went over. There was a splash.

Hudson watched him disappear, then looked back at his feet and grinned.

"I heard my name," Sherlock said, his lips touching John's ear and his arms in a secure hold around the landman, keeping pace easily alongside the boat. "How can I serve you, my dear John?"

"Stop this, for one thing," John retorted, laughing and clinging to the merman's sinewy body.

"You want me to let go of you?" Sherlock asked, seriously.

"No, not that, silly." John's swimming lessons yesterday had not been a complete disaster, but that did not mean he was about to become careless. "You know perfectly well what I mean. Stop distracting me." He took hold of one of the merman's hands that was wandering into dangerous territory.

Sherlock seemed to realise that this was a time for seriousness. Placing his hands in more innocent positions about John's body, he composed his features. "I am all attention." Except for the fact that he was speeding along in the sea next to a small sailing boat with his long black hair plastered to his white, glistening skin, he looked just as if he were comfortably installed in an armchair in the Prince's study, discussing state matters over brandy and a pipe.

Grinning in appreciation, John described the problem. "So," he concluded, "what are our chances of crossing the deep seas in this? And how do we get supplies?"

The merman regarded the boat with all the scepticism of a horse fancier asked to judge the merit of a mule. "To my eyes, this flimsy shell does not look capable of what it has been doing so far," he said, shrugging, "so I might not be an adequate judge. I should say that it depends on where you want to go. There are lands to the far east and the far west that would involve crossing a vast expanse of unpredictable water in a journey that would take many weeks. The next mass of land, however, at our current speed, is merely four days away in that direction. The currents are favourable at this time of year, and the weather looks stable, so I should say there is minimal danger if that is where you want to go."

"That sounds good. And how about supplies?"

"I could bring you fresh water from our deep sea sources."

John stroked the merman's hair worriedly. "But you're banished. Wouldn't they have to kill you if they caught you at it?"

Sherlock smiled. "No one would know me. I have some little but sufficient aptitude for disguises. As for food, I can provide you with what the sea will yield, if you can stomach it without your eternal need to make perfectly good food inedible by charring and boiling it."

John, long used to the merman's near constant criticism of everything he had heretofore considered an indispensable part of life, merely smiled and nodded. "That does sound good. I daresay we can live on fish and seaweeds for four days, can't we, Hudson?"

The servant's face appeared over the side to look at where the two of them were swimming alongside the boat, a bland expression upon his features. "Sir?"

"Fish and seaweeds for four days, Hudson?"

"If I must, sir."

John nodded at Sherlock. "It's a plan, then."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Hudson?"

"Pirates and sea monsters, sir?"

John nodded again. "Oh yes. Sherlock?"

"This shell is much too small to merit the attention of pirates, and there are no sea monsters in these waters, unless you count whales. But most of them are beasts of burden trained for use by us, and they would not attack unless provoked."

John nodded a last time. "Then this is what we'll do: approach the next land and depend entirely upon your help until we get there."

Sherlock smiled in agreement. "Are we done discussing serious things now, John? I think it is time for you to continue your swimming lessons."

Hudson cleared his throat and looked away once more, thinking to himself that "swimming lesson" certainly was an interesting expression for what the merman really was up to.

* * *

"'The weather looks stable', he said," John grumbled, loud enough to be heard over the gale while clinging to the mast. "Stable weather, my foot. Nothing is stable right now, not even the horizon. I think I'm going to be sick."

Hudson said nothing. The greenish tint of his face was sufficiently eloquent.

"That should teach us not to trust a merman's predictions about the weather. Currents, yes. Direction of fish swarms, yes. But not weather."

"Schools, sir," Hudson interjected weakly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I believe it is called schools of fish, sir."

They both fell silent, hanging on for dear life as another wave nearly capsized the boat.

"Hudson," John called when things had ceased tossing for a spell. "What's a multitude of waves called, then?"

"I'm sure I have no idea, but I do know that we have taken on too much water again."

They both went back to bailing.

Suddenly, a silvery shape arched out of the water, flew in a graceful arc over the side and landed with a splat on the waterlogged deck between them. "There is an island a few of your miles in this direction," Sherlock said by way of greeting. "It is sparsely inhabited from what I could see. We can at least outwait the storm there."

"The storm that came upon us so unexpectedly," John could not resist interjecting, shaking his head to make his wet hair flail wildly about his head and keep the rain from running into his eyes.

"Precisely," Sherlock said serenely. "I have no doubt it will go away equally unexpectedly, but until then we should seek shelter. I shall pull you there."

He grabbed the belaying line and flopped himself back into the water, making the little boat shake even more and leaving John and Hudson hanging onto the mast. Presently, the boat began to pick up speed, dragged along by the merman.

John, happening to look over the side, saw something that made him doubt his senses. "It's called a school of waves, Hudson," he shouted over the gale.

"Sir?"

"A school of waves." He loosed one hand and pointed. "See? They have fins."

And indeed, the little boat was suddenly surrounded by dark shapes that, at first glance, looked worryingly like...

"Sharks! I don't like this, sir," Hudson wailed. "If we capsize..."

The dark bodies, half a dozen in number, approached and surrounded the boat in a tight circle, moving along with it. Finally, they were close enough to touch as they kept the boat steady, and John gave a relieved laugh.

"They're dolphins, Hudson, not sharks. They're helping us."

They watched the dark shapes gliding easily through the waves, close to their battered little craft that was keeping much more steady now that it was moving along a straight course.

"You were right, sir," Hudson offered after a few minutes of sodden silence.

"With what?"

"This is infinitely more exciting than being a royal manservant."

* * *

"Fun," the dolphins were clicking as they moved along with the boat. "No-look worry. Safety landman-possession-you."

Sherlock snorted. "Everything's fun to you, and he's not my landman," he grumbled. "Importance landman safety," he clicked back, straining against the waves that were seemingly intent on pulling the little boat off-course."

There was much high-pitched dolphin laughter at that. "Heart-possession-you loss," one of them clicked, and the laughter grew louder.

Sherlock did not bother to contest that. He needed all his strength for pulling. "Suggestion help-you-me exchange amusement," he clicked, rather warmly.

There was some more snickering, then two of the long, dark shapes detached themselves from the hull of the boat and joined him, taking the line into their mouths and adding their strength to Sherlock's.

It was not long before the sea floor began to rise up to meet them, and one by one, the dolphins broke away. "Query manner future life you-landman-togetherness," the last one clicked, peering earnestly into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock had to admit that this was a good question. "Future time demonstration," he clicked thoughtfully. Time would tell, indeed.

* * *

The next morning, after the storm had cleared and the island had ceased looking like a dark mass against a slightly lighter cloudy background, John took one look around and decided to devote a few hours to exploring their new surroundings. Hudson remained behind, content to keep watch over the boat and to watch the horizon for any passing ships.

They had found that they had made landfall in a cove with a sandy beach that gradually turned into grass-covered dunes with isolated pine trees that gathered into a wood as you went further inland. Here, the coast branched into a peninsula, creating a shallow, warm lagoon that sheltered the beach from the more violent temper of the sea. In the wake of the gale, the air was fresh and the sky clear, a slight wind drying Hudson's clothes and driving gentle waves towards the beach. Seagulls were weaving up and down nearby, their cries blending into the sounds of the wind and the surf. All in all, Hudson found that he quite liked it here.

A long, glinting, submerged shape glided up the shallow water towards him. Hudson levered himself to his feet and dusted the sand off himself. Then the familiar head of Sherlock surfaced, spitting out water and blinking in that half-blind way the merman had before his eyes adjusted to the air and focused on Hudson.

"Good morning, sir," Hudson greeted him. "And how are you this morning?"

Sherlock smiled, letting the next wave drift him close. "Very well, Hudson. I slept quite comfortably in a cave nearby, which is fortuitously uninhabited. And I'm bringing you breakfast." He held up two large fish in demonstration. "Where's John?"

"Exploring. No offense, but I am rather hoping he'll find us something to eat that is neither fish nor seaweed. Sir."

Sherlock looked at the fish in his hand and shrugged. "As you like. I can always keep them for myself. I trust the boat is not damaged?"

"The sail can easily be repaired, provided we can find the necessary items, such as a sturdy needle and a bit of thread. The way it is looking now, we are stranded, we have nothing but the clothes upon our backs, and they are in a sorry state as well." Hudson emphasized this by brushing at the frayed cuff of his shirt.

Sherlock levered himself up on one arm and craned his head to look around. "But meanwhile, this land is to your liking? It is not dangerous for you to be here?"

"We don't know that yet, sir. The prin-, I mean, John is currently finding out."

"Well, what danger could there be? Dangerous winds? Poisonous plants? Beasts?"

"All of that, except maybe the winds," Hudson said. "I daresay they are much more dangerous at sea." The servant sighed, looking at the peaceful cove wistfully.

"You wish to stay here," Sherlock stated.

"It is not my decision. Besides, the island probably belongs to someone. We cannot be trespassing on someone else's property. It's not done." He looked around. "But it is very nice here. That little patch of heather over there would be ideally suited to putting up a cottage and an herbal garden. All we'd need is wood for building, and a fresh water source."

"There is a spring a little to this side," Sherlock informed him, pointing. "I smelled the fresh water when I was hunting for the fish. It collects in a small pool beyond that dune."

"And the water in it is fine," John's voice added from behind them. Turning around, Hudson saw the former prince approach with a springy step and a carefree expression such as he had never seen upon his face before. He was wearing only his sodden trousers; his equally sodden shirt was draped over one arm, clear water glinting upon the curls of his chest hair. "Good morning! I had a nice swim and a good hike, and I saw any amount of rabbits and tracks of deer and boars. A few traps should provide us with ample game, and I think I learned enough of the knightly arts to be able to fashion a bow and some arrows."

"Until such time as the sail is repaired and we can continue our journey," Hudson provided tentatively after a pause during which John and Sherlock appeared to share some sort of silent communication.

"You know," John said, "I've been thinking. This island is quite nice. I talked to the chap who lives a few miles down that way, and he told me that nobody claims it, or if they do, they have forgotten about it. There would be no objection to us staying here."

Hudson felt his expression brightening. "An excellent idea, sir."

"What about you, Sherlock?"

"It does not matter much where I go. This island is outside of the emperor's territory, so an outlaw such as myself could very well stay here."

"Yes, but it is pleasant for you? You do not care much about the island itself, I daresay. How is living down there?" He jerked his head towards the sea.

"I have found a cave to sleep in, a fish way passes near here, the vegetation is ample and manifold, and I would have you near me." The merman's face seemed to soften as he gazed at John.

Hudson, recognising the signs, cleared his throat. "I'll see what there is to be found in the way of building materials, then, shall I?" he offered.

Predictably, there was no response save a splash. The servant smiled to himself and set to work.

* * *

**Epilogue**

"Back home, it must be almost Christmas now," John said wistfully, splashing lazily in the warm water, the surf advancing and receding about him, inundating him with water, soft white sand and foam, then washing him clean again in the eternal rhythm of the sea.

Sherlock, next to him, was lying upon his back, letting himself be covered completely by the waves to peer up at John through the water that separated them. Then the wave receded, and his face was free again. "What is Christmas?" he asked, predictably.

"It's a religious holiday. We celebrate the birth of the son of God, who will save us all."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "What is the custom for this celebration?" Another wave rolled in and covered him.

John waited until his friend was visible once more. "We decorate our homes with evergreens, we hang up mistletoe to have an excuse for kissing people, and we give gifts to each other. Oh, and there's singing, and eating, and ideally a general spirit of forgiveness."

The merman grinned, turned over and let himself be washed on top of John. His long tail wrapped about the landman's legs in a secure hold. "Singing, eating, kissing, which no doubt leads to something else if you are a representative example of your species, gift giving and generally having a good time. We have something similar, but we do not call it a religious holiday. What is mistletoe? A plant?"

"Hmhm. A plant that grows on other plants. It has small green leaves and white berries. Looks a bit like that kelp that you ate the other day." John squirmed pleasurably, feeling safe in the knowledge that Sherlock would always hold his head above the water, even though he could swim quite well by now.

"Why is hanging up mistletoe an excuse for kissing people?" the merman resumed, allowing the water to fan out his long hair and cover both of them.

"I don't really know. It's a custom. You hang it up where it isn't obvious, or where people must pass through, such as above doorways, and when someone does so whom you've taken a liking to, you may kiss them. Some say you must kiss them, whoever it is. It's funny, and nice. Brings people together."

"If only something like this could bring our two peoples together," Sherlock mused. He disengaged himself slightly as he warmed to his topic. "We could build a gigantic doorway on this shore, hang up this mistletoe everywhere, and then lead all the merfolk through while the landfolk waited upon the other side. It would be quite a sight, all those people kissing."

John laughed. "I doubt it would heal our differences." He hugged the sinewy body of his merman close to him once more.

"I doubt it too, but it's a nice thought. So, to reiterate, it is or will be Christmas soon. We have no need for mistletoe in order to engage in kissing. However, the giving of gifts is part of the custom, and has not yet been addressed. What would you like to have?"

John looked around at the white sands, the lush vegetation in the distance, his hut, the lagoon, and back at the merman in his arms. "I have everything I could possibly desire. What about you? Is there anything you would wish for?"

The long tail wrapped about John again. "At the risk of being predictable, I wish you could join me beneath the sea just once. I should love to show you how we live, take you to our theatres to hear our music, or show you the Great Hall in one of the chasms that holds a hundred thousand. It's eternally dark there, but the Hall is always alight with the green glow of our lamps. The building is a legacy from ancient times. This sort of architecture is not constructed anymore today. I wish I could show you where I used to live, and present you to my brother. I'm sure he would like you."

"Your brother!" John returned the hug, eyes stinging. "I'm sorry it had to come to this. You seem to miss your life very much."

"I am not sorry, John," Sherlock said serenely. "Being here with you is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Besides, nothing lasts forever, not even my people's prejudice. Things may change soon. Have I told you that I've had a visitor?"

"No! When?"

"When you were up on the hill, seeing to the traps. It seems that news of my whereabouts is spreading. This is the third client in as many weeks."

"That's wonderful," John said, smiling hugely. He had been worried that the merman would be bored with their idyllic life before too long and leave him and the island for good. "Then you'll be off again?"

"Well… About that. John, since it's Christmas, I have another wish, and a more realistic one this time. I was wondering if you would care to join me in this investigation. It seems I may have need of your second pair of arms."

"You want me for an assistant?"

"If you have no objection.

"I'd be delighted!"

"It involves a journey, though. You would need your boat. There appears to have been a series of curious incidents on a neighbouring isle that I've been asked to look into. My client is a Mr. Hilton Cubitt, a landman. My first walking client."

"Wonderful! When do we leave?"

"Is midday too soon? I should like to be there before nightfall."

"By no means! The boat and I will be ready."

He was rewarded with a mer-kiss.

And so, at midday, the shore of Baker's Isle was deserted. Nearby stood a curiously constructed hut close to the lagoon, connected to the sea by a ditch that was filled with water even at low tide. Next to it, in the sun, Hudson was working on a wooden sign, singing to himself, waiting for his two dissimilar masters to return.

He stepped back to inspect his handiwork, nodded, and nailed the sign to the post he had prepared:

"Sherlock and John of Baker's Isle - Detective Agency  
Aquatic And Terrestrial Investigations  
Both Mermen And Landmen Welcome"

* * *

 

The End :-)


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